


Little Monster

by Demenior



Series: Tomorrow I’ll Switch the Beat [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (that's an understatement), Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Animorphs References, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Culture Shock, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Cultural Assimilation, Galra Empire, Galra Politics, Gen, Graphic Description, Identity Issues, Nightmare Fuel, No sexual elements, Physical Abuse, Shiro's Fun Year, Stockholm Syndrome, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Author has included her own art, Traumatic Cuddles, Violence, and kind of regrets that, the Bad ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7877566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demenior/pseuds/Demenior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shiro experiences the Galra equivalent of New Years 5 times, and each time he's someone a little different. A look at Shiro and his relationship to his captors and to himself from the beginning to the end of his year with the Galra.</p><p>or</p><p>Culture Shock at it's Worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feeding Day the 1st

**Author's Note:**

> Final warning that these are gonna be pretty graphic bc they're pure trauma! Yay Shiro! 
> 
> *Note: we've taken some liberties with the Galra, which will be explored further as this fic continues. There's notes at the end if you're interested!
> 
> *Note: Haggar is The Important Alien, and later The Queen, because Shiro doesn’t speak Galran and doesn’t know what they’re saying. He’s made some connection with other prisoners so he knows that the Galra are called Galra, and that’s about it. (Zarkon is the Boss/King, and Sendak has the funky eye!)
> 
> *frapka por are the Work Camps. At this moment Shiro doesn’t actually know what that means, only that you go to frapka por or you go to the arenas, and all the prisoners said that the other one is the Better Place

**** Something was happening. Things were always happening, things that Shiro couldn’t understand because aliens did things differently or because he had no idea what they were saying, but he knew that something  _ new _ . This was a break in schedule. The Galra ordered them all to face the walls of their cell. Shiro took his position, and tried to ignore how the prisoners near him flinched away when he stood beside them to place his hands on the wall. The alien on his left had one eye, and when the Holts were here the four of them had actually managed some very simple communication. He was the one who had told them about staring out of the Arena, and to try and get to the  _ frapka por _ . Shiro had saved Matt, and hopefully sent him after his father. Now he was stuck here, and everyone was afraid of him. The wall panels lit up under his palms, indicating he was making contact. He’d learned the hard way that breaking this contact until he was secured resulted in a very painful shock.

 

The Galra entered and located Shiro first. He was now considered the most dangerous prisoner in this cell. That was hilarious, because Shiro had never been thought of as violent in his life. He hadn’t even killed his opponent after he’d figured out the trick with the orb. There were other prisoners in the cell that had killed others, and yet  _ Shiro _ was the dangerous one. His arms were wrenched behind his back and his wrists were secured with tight handcuffs. It was humiliating, to be treated like a criminal like this. 

 

The Important Galra-- the one with the long white hair and the big cloak-- was there when the guards pulled Shiro from the cell. She kept her hood low, though Shiro could see the glint of her eyes as she watched him. What else was she going to do to him today? He had to squint against the bright light of the hall, compared to the darkness of the cell. The guards handed her a chain that was linked to his handcuffs. She was here to take him somewhere?

 

A shout down the hall distracted him a moment. Other prisoners were being taken from their cells, shackled in chains and made to walk in long lines. It was almost like they were headed for an Arena fight- but it wasn't time for the Arena and there were more prisoners than usual for that.

 

Shiro took a deep breath, and then another, and then another. He couldn't panic. He had to stay rational. The Holts were out there and Shiro needed to find them. Some aliens down the hall were wailing loudly, and a guard lit his prod as a threat and the electricity crackled in the air. The wailing didn't stop until the guards made it stop. The guards started making a  _ hoo-eee-hahaya _ cackle that made the hair on the back of Shiro’s neck stand up.  Several aliens around them cowered back, Shiro included. Their rows of sharp white teeth and plum-purple gums were on display.

 

They were laughing, Shiro realized. At what, he didn't know. He didn't notice the Important Alien had started walking away until she tugged him along. He was yanked off his feet and hit the floor hard, cracking his head against the floor as he tumbled onto his back. She didn't pause to let him recover before yanking him along again, wrenching his arms painfully as he slid across the floor. 

 

His shoulders ached by the fourth pull, and his arms and cheek stung from the friction rash he was developing, but he managed to get his feet under him. The Important Galra wasn't even concerned that she'd been dragging dead weight. He wondered if she'd even noticed. She hadn't broken her stride and Shiro almost had to jog to catch up.

 

“What do you want?” He tried again. He was so positive he'd heard the first Galra they'd met speak English. He had to hope he wasn't dreaming that. He had to hope they could understand him.

 

When she didn't reply he quickened his pace to walk almost beside her, rather than be dragged around like a dog on a leash, “Where are we going? What's happening?”

 

Part of him didn't want an answer. If they were going back to the Arena- Shiro's stomach tightened and he thought he might be sick. His body still ached from the battle. He'd barely survived one round. A second would be fatal.

 

But if the alternative was the labs again? He didn't want to think about it. Couldn't think about the pain. He clenched his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms to ground himself. He was strong. He wasn't going to panic.

 

They were going the same direction the other prisoners were being taken. Shiro saw familiar faces, all grave and staring ahead blankly. Some were looking around in terror, and none of them would look him in the eye.

 

“What's going on?” Shiro tried again, speaking up louder. The Important Galra turned to snarl at him, lips drawn back to expose tooth and gum. Shiro flinched away so hard he nearly tripped. She reached out and he ducked, trying to avoid her hand, but she pulled his chain taut and didn't give him anywhere to move. She grabbed him around the face, her palm pressed painfully against his nose and her claws dug into the sides of his head just enough to be painful. Shiro went still on pure instinct.

 

They stayed like that for a second, then another, and another. The prisoners being marched past now openly gaped at them. At the 7-foot tall Galra who's teeth were the size of Shiro's fingers, who could take his eyes out or snap his neck with a twitch of her wrist, and him who was stock still except for his trembling knees.

 

She growled at him, and he could feel the vibration of it through her palm. Her hand smelled flowery, but also sharp like char and lightning. She was angry, but he couldn’t understand why.

 

“I'm… sorry?” Shiro ventured. She snarled- and started shouting at him. Shiro tried to listen to the words, hoping for some sort of familiar sound, but she shook him once with strength that betrayed her slender frame, and the muscles in his neck felt like they'd popped and he was instantly nauseous and dizzy. She released him and he staggered, gasping for air to keep from throwing up.

 

She snorted once and that was all the warning he had before she started dragging him along again. His shoulders felt even worse off, and the muscles in his neck felt like they had been twisted out of place. He stumbled after her, knees weak with fear.

 

He decided to try again, “Can you speak English? I don't understand what you're say-”

 

She grabbed him and threw him against the wall, pinning him in place with his toes barely touching the floor. The muscles in his neck wrenched painfully while stars danced in his vision. She released him just as fast. His vision was blurred with tears, and came into startling focus as the alien snapped her jaws closed inches from his face. He flattened himself against the wall.

 

“I don't understand!” He pleaded, “what do you want?”

 

She snarled and shoved him roughly in the chest, easily knocking the wind out of him as he bounced off the wall. He gasped for breath as she leaned in again. Her breath was hot, wet and heavy against his face. She tapped one long, clawed finger over his mouth, pushing down as she growled. After a moment of staring, she pulled her hand away. 

 

“You-” Shiro clamped his mouth shut as she snarled and reached for him again.He struggled to catch his breath through his nose, and his winded lungs radiated pain in his chest. She didn't want him to talk. He hoped.

 

When he silenced himself she paused, and rather than hit him she said some more words in her language. Shiro lungs were burning and he sucked ragged breaths through his mouth again. She froze momentarily to see if he was going to talk, and he bowed his head in submission. He hoped she'd recognize the sign.

 

It seemed to work and after a beat she tugged him along again. Shiro focused on his breathing, and staying close enough that she didn't pull on his arms. His shoulder was cramping up already.

 

She took him into an entirely new room. It was the size of a hanger- huge, open and rectangular in shape. The temperature dropped drastically and Shiro was surprised he couldn't see his own breath. Goosebumps rippled down his skin and the cool air stung his throat as he breathed. There were chairs lined up in a single row all along the perimeter of the room. The prisoners were being gathered in a group towards the middle.

 

One of the chairs was quite obviously a throne. It towered over the other chairs, and the seats next to it were more decorated than the others. That was where the really important aliens had to sit. Shiro wondered what kind of political system these aliens had, if they had one at all.

 

The chairs all had hooks in the floor in front of them- rounded pegs that something could be attached to. The chairs were filled with Galra, and the Important Galra pulled Shiro to one of the chairs beside the throne. 

 

She didn't waste any time trying to talk to him, and instead shoved him hard onto his knees. He hit the ground with enough force to bruise and bit his lip to keep from crying out. She threaded the chain through a clasp on the chair, securing it tightly in place. And then she grabbed him around the throat, making Shiro’s mouth go dry as he stared down those white teeth yet again. She growled, rumbling, and pushed him down on the spot again. Only slightly lighter than before.

 

Shiro got the hint. Stay there and don't get up. He nodded weakly, only just catching himself before speaking. She waited for a moment, watching him closely, before she moved to sit in her chair. 

 

Shiro couldn't stop looking around. There were the big aliens mulling around, walking behind him as they headed for their seats. They were talking- but it was no language he knew. Many of them would start laughing-- cackling like hyenas and setting off alarm bells in Shiro’s mind-- and all of them were watching the prisoners intently. They'd break off conversation to stand and stare.

 

The prisoners kept coming in. They were huddling together, looking out nervously at their jailers surrounding them. Shiro strained his neck but couldn't see any other prisoners that had been pulled aside like he had.

 

Wet, putrid breath spilled over his shoulder and Shiro flinched away with a yelp as the alien inhaled his scent. One of the Galra-- one with really big ears and a mechanical eye-- was leaning out of its seat to sniff him. It was drooling, and had its mouth open to taste the air like a cat. It's fangs were as long as Shiro's fingers, growing more jagged as they moved back in the mouth. The Galra grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him across the small space between the chairs. It came so close that Shiro could feel it's teeth on his throat as it inhaled deeply again. Shiro couldn't breathe. His eyes were watering and he was gasping for air like his body couldn't decide if he should panic or just shut down and hope for death.

 

Claws dug into his back and he was dragged backwards into the Important Galra’s chair so hard his teeth rattled. She put a palm over his chest, pinning him in place, and roared in the other Galra’s face. The Galra’s big ears flattened in what looked like submission and it sulked back in its chair. Shiro managed to suck in a weak breath, and started shaking. The Important Galra tightened her grip on him, not digging her claws into his skin this time, and she grumbled softly. She didn't let him go as the room continued to fill with more purple Galra, and twice as many prisoners. Her hand felt like a physical barrier between him and the rest of the world. The weight and warmth of it was strangely soothing against the frigid air of the room, and the strange aliens around him.

 

The other Galra seemed subdued, though Shiro was loathe to take his eyes off of him. But there was so much to look at- so much  _ new _ \- around him that he couldn't help it. 

 

There were banners on the walls, with a symbol that must be the purple aliens insignia because it was repeated everywhere, and what was probably writing but looked to Shiro like a bunch of abstract scribbles. There were no windows. He still had no idea where in space they were, or even how long he’d been with the Galra. The passage of time was all muddled and his internal clock was thrown off due to the lack of sunlight or a consistent schedule. 

 

He kept scanning the crowd of prisoners, hoping to see Matt or Dr Holt’s faces. Not a single alien face looked even remotely human, and Shiro had no way of knowing if the Holts were okay. If Matt was okay. 

 

His stomach flipped at the memory of hurting Matt. How the recoil had jarred his shoulder as he sliced open Matts leg, and how slowly it had started bleeding out. In the movies injuries aways spurted blood like fountains, and that's what Shiro had expected. The slow pour of Matts blood into his hands, his pale face twisted in a grimace and how he bit through his lip trying not to cry, had all combined into the perfect horror that wouldn't let Shiro sleep at night. He still couldn't see the Holts. Wherever they were- hopefully the  _ frapka por _ place- hopefully it was better than here.

 

The Important Galra’s hand was so warm that Shiro managed to stop shaking. He longed for a blanket or some thicker clothes to wear. His fingers had gone numb and when he tried to clench and unclench his fists, to keep circulation going, they felt stiff and swollen in the joints. His nose and ears were freezing, and the air was cold-sharp every time he breathed in. He tried to breathe through his nose to warm the air before it reached his lungs, but he was still on the verge of hyperventilating in the face of all the aliens and activity around him so it was difficult.

 

The stream of prisoners seemed to have slowed, and there was a loud clanking and clunking of gears as the big doors to the room closed. Shiro's stomach was up in his throat. What was going on here? It had to be a show of some sort, with all the chairs and spectators here. 

 

The Galra were milling about, moving towards their seats now that the doors were closed. Did they have assigned seating? Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were sitting. Many that passed in front of Shiro stopped to gawk at him, or would nudge their companion and point at him. He wasn't sure what their intention or meaning was. If they stared too long then the Important Galra would hiss at them and tighten her hold on Shiro. She was keeping him safe. Maybe she hadn't realized she was hurting him earlier. If he could only figure out how to communicate then she could help him.

 

The prisoners were quiet, save for quiet mumbles amongst themselves. They were pressing together, nervously looking at all the captors surrounding them. The Galra were getting restless. They'd stopped talking as well, and were watching the prisoners with an unsettling focus. Shiro tilted his head as far as he could to look up at the Important Galra above him without moving too much. She was looking ahead as well, and was beginning to drool. The Galra sitting beside them was dripping drool onto the floor. Shiro pressed himself closer to the chair to draw the least amount of attention to himself as possible.

 

A horn blew and Shiro nearly jumped out of his skin. The Important Galra hissed at him and tightened her grip around him, making it hard to breathe. Shiro stayed still and she released him when he didn't struggle. 

 

All of the Gakra stood up. Their heads were high and they were all looking at the throne beside the Important Alien. The lack of the warm hand made the cold feel worse and he clenched his teeth together to keep them from rattling. The prisoners were grabbing one another, and cowering low. A collection of wails and sobs rippled through the crowd of them.

 

Shiro rolled onto his knees so that he could crane his neck to see around the Important Galra. The chain connecting him to the chair rattled loudly and Shiro was aware of many heads turning to look at him. The Important Galra rumbled a warning at him- at least he thought it was a warning- but didn't reach to stop him. 

 

All of the Galra, at once, thumped their left hand on the far side of their chest. He didn't know the significance but Shiro knew a salute when he saw one.

 

A new alien entered Shiro's field of vision. He was moving to the throne. He was so big Shiro's jaw dropped. While most of the Galra were 7 to 8 feet tall, and the Important Galra was slightly smaller than that, this new alien was at least 10 feet. Possibly more. Shiro wasn’t even sure if he was a Galra because the size was so startling.

 

He was dressed in a cape that trailed out behind him, making him appear even larger. His face was mottled with space-pale smooth skin where his fur had come out in patches. Scars crisscrossed his face and his bare forearms where the armour didn't cover him. Shiro ducked his head and hoped this new alien didn't see him. From her proximity to the throne, the Important Galra had to be someone to be respected which was why she could boss around anyone who tried to hurt Shiro, but if the big guy wanted to he wasn't sure what she- or Shiro himself- could do to stop him.

 

The Boss Galra stood in front of the throne and held a hand up. All talk, even the prisoners whimpering, stopped. Shiro leaned out again to watch. 

 

The Boss Galra started talking. His voice boomed, gravelly and low, rumbling in Shiro's chest and in his bones. This was some sort of ceremonial speech? At points the Boss stopped and all of the other Galra would chant a response. 

 

The speech didn't last long, and all of the aliens stood taller and thumped their chests again and shouted, three times  _ Vrepit Sa! _

Not for the first time, Shiro wondered what that meant. Now all of the Galra were watching the Boss. Not with respect but with anticipation. They were all licking their lips, and most of them were drooling outright. They were expecting dinner. Dinner and a show, most likely, Shiro thought darkly. This was some sort of gathering of high-ranking aliens, he was sure of it, like a banquet. They were going to have the prisoners fight for entertainment. Was that why he’d been brought here?

 

Two drones were standing off to the side. The Boss gestured to them and pointed at the prisoners. They marched into the crowd and started scanning. A blue light showed the direction of their gaze, and they started making their way through the prisoners. Anyone who didn't move was electrocuted and knocked to the side.

 

As they moved through they picked certain prisoners to stand to the side. The first round to fight no doubt. Despite the cold Shiro could feel himself breaking into a sweat. His muscles were aching, and an open terrain like this was a complete disadvantage for him. He couldn't fight here. He looked up at the Important Galra, hoping that she'd have some way to tell him she was going to protect him. She was watching the drones closely. He could see that under her hood her ears were pointed forwards, all senses locked on the upcoming fight. 

 

The drones directed the selected prisoners to the Boss. He hadn't sat down yet in his throne. Did they have to fight  _ him _ ? Shiro's stomach dropped. There was no way he'd survive a fight with a 10 foot tall monster.

 

The Boss inspected the quivering prisoners in front of him. One of the aliens pissed himself- at least, that's what Shiro thought happened. All of the Galra started laughing, filling the space with wheezing hyena cackles. A few of them roared, shifting excitedly on the spot. The Boss selected three of the prisoners-- all larger aliens who looked quite strong. The drones brought the remaining prisoners to the Important Aliens, and while she selected between them, Shiro made eye contact with some of them. He knew them from the cells. One of them was the one that had saved some food for him and the Holts one their first day- the one with the single eye that wouldn’t look at him after the Arena fight. It's single eye stayed trained on Shiro. It was shaking so badly Shiro was shocked it could stand.  _ Be brave _ he tried to say in his own look,  _ be strong. We’ll get through this. _

 

The Important Galra chose the one-eyed alien, as well as a second that was very, well, fat. It was nearly the same size as a cow, and lumbered slowly on three legs. The two of them were chained to the hook in the floor, keeping them in place. That seemed… odd, for a fight. Maybe they'd pick a fighter and release them for the round?

 

More drones were now taking the other prisoners to the other aliens around the edge of the room. No one else got to choose their fighter. Perks of being in charge, Shiro supposed. Maybe the Important Galra was more of a Queen, and the Boss was the King? Shiro needed to find a way to communicate with them before something bad happened. He wasn't a criminal- like many of the prisoners probably were- and he needed to get the Holts and get home soon.

 

The Galra all around the room started taking off their armour. That was… weird. Shiro was surprised at what he saw. He'd assumed they were as bulky as their armour led him to believe, but most of them had flabby, sagging stomachs like they hadn't had a proper meal in months. 

 

Well, that explained the lack of banquet food. Maybe they'd started making the prisoners fight each other to forget they were starving. Shiro hadn't actually seen any of the Galra eat. He assumed they were carnivores based on their teeth, but there wasn't a lot to eat in space he figured.

 

The Boss- King- had also stripped down. He looked like skin and bones, betraying the huge stature and impression he'd made walking in. His booming voice stopped all excited conversation, and he said a few more lines with increasing excitement. The prisoners all started trembling and shouting. What was he saying? The Galra were shouting now, along with the King. They were jumping where they stood, unable to contain themselves. 

 

The King roared. It sounded like a plane taking off. It rattled Shiro's teeth and deafened his ears. The big mouth with those huge, huge fangs opened wider, wider and wider than it should be possible. Shiro watched his jaw dislodge like a snake, opening wider and wider still. The Galra shouting was so loud it was shaking the walls.

 

Shiro's stomach dropped so fast he thought he was going to be sick. He knew what was happening, he didn't want to believe it. The Galra all went silent, holding their breath in anticipation.

 

The King dropped onto all fours to reach the prisoner chained closest to him, engulfed an entire flailing limb in his mouth and bit down. 

 

“NO!” Shiro shouted before he could stop himself.

 

The alien was screaming, a shrill tone that made Shiro's stomach twist in knots. The King shook his head side to side, shaking the alien like a ragdoll. Bone cracked loudly and the chains rattled as they were pulled taut and eventually the King severed the arm with his teeth. He swallowed it down whole, jerking his head as the loose skin on his throat swelled to accommodate the size of his meal.

 

The King swallowed loudly, the sound echoed in the silent hall. The prisoner was screaming, still chained and trying to get away as blood poured onto the floor. The King pinned it with a massive hand and bit down again. That seemed to be the signal for the rest, and they kicked over their chairs as they dashed forwards to start eating the prisoners in front of them.

 

Shiro had never heard such horrible sounds. He threw himself backwards as the Galra surged towards the helpless prisoners. He scrambled to his feet and tried to run away before the chain reached its length and snapped him back onto the floor. He was crying, and shouting even though he didn't even know what he was saying. He strained against the chains until his shoulder nearly dislocated. 

 

He turned to see the Queen biting into the throat of the one-eyed alien. It looked at him, holding his gaze as she tore the flesh from its bones. Shiro couldn’t look away until the Queen’s impossibly huge and savage mouth closed over the alien’s head.

 

The screams were rattling inside his chest, setting off waves of nausea that Shiro could barely contain. He gagged as he listened to the orchestra of bones snapping, aliens surely pleading for their lives or praying to some higher power if aliens believed in something like that. The captor aliens were in a feeding frenzy, eating the prisoners alive bite by huge bite. Their teeth sliced cleanly through bone and exoskeleton or anything else they encountered. 

 

Their backs were still to him, focused on their sadistic banquet. Some reached out to steal from their neighbour and got a snarl and snapping teeth in their face in response. Shiro had never seen anything so cruel. And if they looked his way it was all too easy to imagine how easily those huge mouths could rip him into pieces while he begged for mercy.

 

His legs felt like jelly and he couldn't get upright. He felt exhausted from his attempts to run, but panic was still running under his skin like fire. He crawled on his knees as far behind the Queens chair as he could, curling into a ball and wishing his arms were free so he could hold himself.

 

He was dry sobbing, gagging between every choked breath. He was shouting- wordless, meaningless sounds because he had no way to respond to this level of senseless violence. Adrenaline and pure terror had seized his body, stretching him thin and making him feel like he was being electrocuted at the same time. He wanted it all to stop, he wanted to wake up from this nightmare and never set foot in space again. He wished he could pass out so that he wouldn't have to live through his own dismemberment. 

 

He lost any sense of time passing. The massacre stretched on and on and on. So many prisoners had been brought in. Shiro had been dumbfounded by the size of the prisons when they'd first been captured. He couldn't believe there was a need for prisons that size, for cells that packed. Now he knew why. 

 

Pieces of dismembered alien were tossed past him, splattering the floor with green-toned blood. The smell was revolting. It was heavy, wet and thick. While not all of the carnage smelled like human blood, the smell of death was unmistakable. Shiro shrank back, pulling the links of the chain taut as he tried to crawl under the chair. 

 

He didn't want to die like this.

 

Shiro couldn't focus on anything through the screams of the mutilated or his own terrified shrieking. He wasn't aware of the other presence until the Galra grabbed him and dragged him out from behind the chair.

 

It was the Galra that had grabbed him earlier-- and now it was covered in blood and had chunks of flesh stuck to its face and mechanical eye. It's fur down its throat and onto its chest was soaked with blood. It's claws dug deep into Shiro's leg as it pulled him out towards the feeding ground. The chain holding him to the chair reached its length and the abruptness of the stop threw the Galra off balance. Shiro kicked out, knocking its hands away from his legs and he scrambled to get to his feet. He slid on warm blood, using his face to leverage his legs under him and he started running. He had to run! 

 

He forgot about the chain again and was pulled to the ground roughly.

 

“No! No! No! No!” Shiro shouted. He tried to pull against the chain, scrabbling his feet against the floor. He was sliding in blood, unable to move or even get back on his feet, and the chain wouldn’t break.

 

Claws closed around his ankle again and he was dragged back towards the alien. It pinned him with a heavy hand between his shoulderblades. Thick, wet drool spilled down the back of his neck. Shiro was calling for help-- for anyone to save him. His voice was cracking, he was crying harder than he’d ever cried in his entire life. 

 

The alien grabbed his right arm, pulling it back at an angle to make it easier to bite. Shiro kicked and twisted as much as he could, trying to do something, anything to get away. The alien pulled Shiro’s arm out further, making him scream in pain. It was going to rip his arm right off. He could picture the pain already.

 

There was an answering roar.

 

The Queen tackled the Mecha-Eyed Galra off of Shiro. It snarled back at her and for a moment they were two, huge animals fighting over a kill. He was so much bigger than she was. She couldn’t fight him and win. Shiro was kicked to the side as they postured, snapping in each others faces. The other Galra lunged for Shiro, and the Queen caught him mid-lunge. But not with her claws.

 

She waved a hand and the Galra froze in mid-air. Her eyes were lit up golden like sunlight. Shiro’s breath caught in his throat. It… it looked like magic. It couldn’t be. But that’s what it looked like.

 

The Queen grinned savagely, and she turned her hand and formed a fist. The Galra’s arm-- the one he’d been using to pin Shiro down with-- ripped free of his body. Blood sprayed out, hitting Shiro in the face. The Queen dropped the other alien and it writhed on the floor. She huffed in it’s face, a definitive win for her. 

 

She was covered in just as much gore as the other Galra. Shrips of flesh from the one-eyed alien were caught in her teeth. Shiro’s entire body started shaking. He wanted to cry, or scream, but there was no one to help. He felt exhausted and wrung out. The Queen walked towards him, dropping onto all fours to crawl the last bit. Shiro closed his eyes, bracing for her teeth. He felt her lean in close, checking him over. She grabbed him around the back of his neck and started pulling, tugging him along. Shiro barely had time to try to stand instead of being dragged. The chain pulled tight and once again twisted his arms and wrists, making him cry out. The Queen hissed and reached back, waving her hand and suddenly the chain went slack. The cuffs fell off of his wrists and his arms fell limp at his side. They were numb from lack of circulation and being in such a weird position, and cut and bruised from being yanked around. As soon as they were loose, pain and severe pins and needles flooded him from fingertips to shoulders.

 

She dragged him to where her selected prisoners had been tied up. Around the room were more of the Galra fighting over remains, or finishing eating still-twitching prisoners together. A courageous-- or possibly stupid-- Galra had crept forwards to steal from the Queen. She tossed Shiro down and jumped forwards to scare off the offender. 

 

Shiro landed on the remains of the cow-like alien. He tried to catch himself on his arms, but they were numb and wouldn’t respond. He landed on his face, honey-thick blood spilled into his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto his chest as he struggled to sit up.

 

The half-eaten alien sucked in a ragged breath. Shiro felt it’s chest rise from where he was half-laying on it.

 

“Oh my god,” he groaned. He half-shoved, half-fell backwards off of the alien. It was laying on its side, several legs broken and it was half eaten from the middle-outwards. It was looking at Shiro with one wide, glossy eye. Shiro was sitting in its spilled innards.

 

“Oh my god,” Shiro repeated. He was going to be sick. He rolled to his knees, barely kept himself upright on his hands, and puked. The smell stayed strong in his face, and coupled with the blood and death around it made something far worse than anything Shiro could have ever imagined.

 

The Queen grabbed him from behind, the back of his head this time, and pushed Shiro forwards until he sprawled onto the prisoner alien’s guts again.

 

“No! No, don’t eat me!” he begged. She released him after a moment. Shiro pushed away as quickly as he could. Warm blood was soaking through the front of his uniform and he doubled over to the side to be sick again. He turned to look the dying alien in the eye. It’s mouth was open, trying to speak or gasping for air but no sound came out.

 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro sobbed to it. He’d never felt so helpless in his entire life, “I’m sorry!”

 

The Queen hauled him up again and tossed him onto the cow-alien. Shiro’s right arm slipped right inside the alien, and the poor things entire body shuddered. Shiro tried to crawl away as fast as he could, even though his limbs were shaking so badly they wouldn’t cooperate with him.

 

The Queen grabbed him again-- around the throat and choking him-- and placed him back in the gory mess.

 

“What do you want?” he shouted.

 

She grabbed him by the back of his head and forced him facedown into the alien, holding him down as he suffocated in blood. As soon as she released him he threw up. There was blood in his teeth, in his eyes, in his hair and ears. His nose was plugged and he couldn’t get away from it.

 

She tried to drown him twice more. Shiro had nothing left in his stomach to vomit, but he dry heaved until his chest ached. She huffed loudly, almost as if she was annoyed or frustrated with him.

 

She grabbed him again, holding his head firmly in place, and took a handful of still-steaming flesh from the dead alien. Shiro was so exhausted he didn’t think he could cry anymore. He was shaking with overexertion and his throat was raw from screaming.

 

“What do you want?” he begged, “just tell me!”

 

She pressed the meat to his face, just missing hitting his mouth dead-on. 

 

“No! No, no, no!” Shiro stammered, and at the chance she forced the flesh into his mouth. She let Shiro twist away and he spat it out immediately. It’s taste was sour and sharp in his mouth and he dry heaved again and again and again. Fresh tears started falling from his eyes.

 

She tried again, holding him still and pressed the meat to his face. Again, Shiro refused. He tried to push her hand away and she shook him angrily. When she released him he dropped onto his hands and knees and begged for her to stop. The Queen crouched over him and shouted, her long fangs flashing and awful breath rolling over him as bloodied spittle sprayed from her jaws. He cowered before her and bawled like he had never cried before.

 

She grabbed him by the throat this time. She flipped him onto his back in the steaming pile of innards, and squeezed his throat until he was clawing for air, kicking and gasping. His vision started blacking out when she released him, and he sucked in ragged, desperate breaths.

 

She took the opportunity and force-fed him again. Shiro choked as he struggled to breathe and swallow, and coughed up the meat. His throat and chest were burning, his jaw ached and his head was light.

 

She choked him again. Holding on longer, until he thought his eyes were going to pop and his lungs screamed in pain. He got in two gasps of air before she stuffed the flesh in his mouth again. This time she held her hand over his mouth, keeping his head still with her other hand and not allowing him any leeway. 

 

Shiro gagged and nearly threw up in his mouth. He wanted to fight and struggle but his limbs felt heavy and numb. She would keep trying, he could see that. She wanted him to eat the alien that had bled out around him. She would kill him too, trying to force him to eat. Why did she want this? What did she want with him? She growled, and the rumble went through her palms and vibrated through Shiro’s ribs. He was sick and exhausted, but his fear felt fresh all over again.

 

Shiro started to chew.

 

She felt the movement in his jaws and her ears came forwards, watching intently. The consistency was nothing like any meat he’d ever tried, it was grainy and sour and reminded him of lumpy pudding rather than hamburger. He gagged, nearly choking himself, but he managed to swallow. His throat ached so badly from being choked and from throwing up so many times that it made him wince. He’d never felt so sick in his entire life.

 

She pulled her hand from his mouth cautiously, and continued waiting. More delirious than anything, Shiro felt like he was 5 and being asked if he’d finished his meal. He opened his mouth, more to fill his lungs with precious air, but stuck out his tongue as well. There, he’d done it. Now she could leave him alone.

 

She made a sound that could only be described as delighted. She offered him more meat. It was so much easier to give in. He was so tired. He took a smaller bite this time, and tried to swallow it quickly.

 

A new round of crying started. He felt sick, but he forced himself to keep it all down. There were no more prisoners, just scraps that the Galra were bickering over. No more prisoners. There had been at least a hundred, and now there was only Shiro. And he was being hand-fed the aliens who had been so kind to him. 

 

Shiro couldn’t handle another bite, and waved her hand away. He braced for an attack, but the Queen was apparently content and let him be. He was laying on his back, head in the crook of the dead aliens neck, and panting for breath. His throat was on fire. His whole body felt like dead weight. She hovered over him, looking him over, and placed a hand on his chest. He didn’t know what she was looking for and braced for more pain. After a moment she seemed satisfied with what she was feeling for, and pulled away. His eyes were so heavy that it was hard to keep them open. His vision kept blurring with tears and fatigue. 

 

The dead alien jerked under him and the Queen returned to eating. She savagely ripped huge mouthfuls from the carcass just inches away from Shiro, and swallowed them whole.

 

Panic rose in Shiro again and he started hyperventilating. This was surreal, this had to be a nightmare. This couldn’t be happening to him. He didn’t know if he wanted to cry again, or have a panic attack. He watched that unnatural, alien mouth devour the whole body, just inches from his face. He was splattered with blood and chunks of meat, and he couldn’t move.

 

Sound distorted and faded away, and Shiro was acutely aware he was losing consciousness. He struggled to stay awake as the body under him jerked while the Queen tore off another mouthful. He blinked slow and heavy, and when he opened his eyes next the dead alien was gone. Shiro was laying in a pool of sticky blood and the Queen was putting her robes on. He rolled onto his hands and knees, bracing to stay upright as his head spun with the movement. 

 

The other aliens around the room were also getting dressed. Some of them had foregone re-dressing and were leaving the hall carrying their armor over their shoulder. They were all fat, with protruding stomachs, and covered in gore. They walked sluggishly and sloppily, staggering to walk in a straight line. 

 

Shiro was the only non-Galra left. He felt distinctly alone, the absence of the Holt’s was more real than ever. He hoped that the Holt’s had been spared from this nightmare.

 

The Queen grabbed him roughly by his upper arm, and hoisted him onto his feet. She didn’t let him go, and started making her way out of the hall as well. Shiro staggered, his head was spinning and he felt like every stumble was him falling asleep again. He put all his willpower into staying upright and awake.

 

The Queen was just as sluggish as the rest of the Galra. They passed the one that had tried to eat Shiro during the massacre, as drones were carrying it away. It didn’t even growl at them, and instead was licking blood off of it’s remaining hand and purring contently. 

 

Bloody footprints and smears from fingertips filled the halls. Shiro was pulled down the halls that he’d walked earlier with all of the prisoners. He’d thought he could make the aliens understand him, that they could work together. That there was some misunderstanding in how they treated him. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

But he didn’t know what she wanted with him now. The fresh memory of being forced to his knees, chained to her chair, and of being manhandled and force-fed, all made some sort of sense but his mind was too muddled to translate it properly. Shiro thought of a dog chained in the yard, and a child refusing to take their medication. Was that what he was to them? 

 

She pulled him into a private room. Through the stench of blood Shiro could smell other things, but couldn’t identify any of them. These had to be her private quarters- there was a bed to one side, and books, scrolls and tablets scattered around. On the walls were charts and while Shiro couldn’t read them, the diagrams were unmistakably about humans. Or, Shiro realized, they were all about him.

 

There was a cage beside the bed. It was barely taller than Shiro’s knees, and wasn’t long enough for a grown man to stretch out while laying down.

 

“No, no, no,” Shiro mumbled, begging again. He wanted to fight. He wanted to save himself. He had no strength left.

 

He looked around for something- anything-- to help him while she opened the cage. Forcing him in was no effort for her. He tried to fight, to scream for someone to help no matter how useless he knew it was. She growled and shoved him in with no regards for whether he fit or not. He knocked his shoulder and his knee against the bars as he tumbled in, and the bars on the bottom pressed uncomfortably into his ribs. The blood on his body was drying and it was tacky and cold. He stuck to the bars, and started shivering as chills wracked his body. Shiro curled his knees to his chest as best he could, and started crying. 

 

He was miles away from home and he was so, so alone. There was no one coming to save him. And now he was in a cage, waiting, for whatever the alien wanted to do with him next. Was he a pet? Was he a snack?

 

The Queen slapped the cage forcefully, startling Shiro enough to scream briefly. She snarled, baring her teeth at him and he clamped a hand over his mouth to quiet himself. She crawled onto her bed and dropped like a weight. Her hand was still on the cage, fingers curled lightly around the bars. Shiro pressed himself as far from her as he could manage.

 

The lights dimmed, putting the room into almost complete darkness. Shiro’s heart jackhammered in his throat. What now?

 

The Queen started snoring almost instantly. 

 

A whimper of relief escaped him, and he bit down on his lip hard. He didn’t dare wake her up. But if she was sleeping then… then it might be over. He was still alive. For now, he was alive.

 

He wanted to start crying again. He was alive! He was alive! But he bit his tongue and tried to even out his breathing, despite how it kept hitching with sobs. He was alive and silently crying in the dark, a prisoner in space, stuck in a cage while the monster slept next to him. She might eat him in the morning. She might eat him before morning came. In this moment he was bruised, bloody and so, so afraid, but he was alive.

 

The alien’s teeth gleamed in the dark, and her claws hung threateningly through the bars of his cage. There was a cold certainty that no matter how lucky Shiro was in the future, he was going to die here. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet y'all thought Shiro was gonna lose his arm here! Surprise, it was Sendak instead!!
> 
> Anyways we are functioning on ideas to make our Alien's MORE alien, so the Galra actually only need to eat once like every six months, and then they're super lazy and slow for a few days while they digest. To deal w this during wartimes (bc being useless for DAYS while you're fighting wars is pretty inconvenient) they've started doing Feeding Days every ~3 earth months, and they eat less than usual, so they're only dopey for like a day after.
> 
> That's why they rely on drones so much, to keep an eye on things while they sleep off the big eats!


	2. Feeding Day the 2nd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the great feedback last chapter! I'm so glad y'all are enjoying this descent into the madness of Shiro's Fun Year with me!
> 
> A few notes for this chapter:
> 
> *Galard is a (mostly) universal language that can be used for aliens to communicate with one another. The language itself comes from Animorphs (which is a very good series that I highly recommend!) I recognize that Galard and Galra seem very similar in spelling, sorry, but I gotta keep my nerdy shoutouts!
> 
> *Because this fic is from Shiro’s pov, the story uses Malch to refer to Haggar instead of her name, as that’s what she’s instructed Shiro to refer to her as. What Malch means will be explored in another fic (:
> 
> *none of the links in the fic are nsfw/gross by any means, but please view at your own discretion! They're meant to help you picture what I'm talking about/describing (:
> 
> *Zarkon (and possibly Haggar) are at least 10000 years old. They both speak an older form of Galran, called High Galran. Because language is always changing, the more modern version of Galran is called Low Galran because it’s spoken/driven by Galra who are further from the High Court. Zarkon, being an old fart set in his ways, only communicates in High Galran. Low Galra and Galard are very similar and borrow a lot from one another due to the size of the Galra Empire.
> 
> *I realized between writing the last chapter, and writing this one, that I picture the Galra very differently from the show in my mind. And this does change how I write them, woops. For everyone’s sake I’ve tried writing it so you can still picture them as humans-with-ears, but also feel free to start imagining just how scary and alien the Galra can possibly be!
> 
> *Don’t forget that this fic is part of a series exploring a p detailed timeline that MP and I have put together. So a lot of things will be referenced but not explained here, as they’ll be explored in other works. Don’t be alarmed if there’s reference to something you don’t remember happening
> 
> *At least 3 months have passed for Shiro between last chapter and this one. That’s a very, very long time to be in captivity.
> 
> *Shiro and Haggar's talk later on in this chapter is HEAVILY inspired by [No Greater Heaven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7631677), which, incidentally, was the fic that sparked the entire conversation that started this series. Please, go check it out, leave a lovely comment for a great author, but also be aware of the warnings!

“Recite”

Shiro shifts in the cage enough that he keeps Malch in sight, and then narrows his eyes in concentration. He still has a hard time with Galran, but he's been making steady improvement under Malch’s tutelage .

“Feeding Day is… the new...” he says slowly. The words rumble in his chest the way human languages never did, “it is the start of new time.”

“ _A new cycle_ ,” Malch corrects him. She doesn't look up from where she's dusting her shelves and doing some minor tidying around the living space.

He licks his lips and carefully whispers the words, trying to commit them to memory.

“The start of a new cycle,” Shiro repeats, louder.

“Why do we have cycles?” Malch asks.

“Galra,” and he makes sure to use the High Galran word for the people- Malch likes that show of respect, “eat one time in a cycle. They are… new on Feeding Day.”

“We renew our energy, yes. So we may begin new projects or attain new goals because we are not hindered by the need to consume meat daily, like you used to be.”

Shiro nods. There's shouting in the halls and he jumps. Malch laughs.

“It is almost time,” she says. Shiro's stomach lurches,but not in hunger. He hasn't eaten in well over a week- longer than he usually goes without eating now. Malch said it would help him overcome his “fear” of Feeding Day. He regrets telling her how disgusting he finds the whole ordeal. Not that he has enough words in Galran to express how barbaric, sadistic and hellish Feeding Day is.

“Do you want to go now?” Malch asks.

She's being gentle and kind with him, by letting him stay in his cage this morning. Or perhaps she's making sure she isn't tempted to eat him before the festivities start.

Either way Shiro is grateful. He doesn't have to wear the muzzle when he's in his cage, and his skin is thankful for it. The skin on his nose is bruised and rubbed raw, and despite Malch’s remedies for it, the constant need to wear it means he gets very little time to heal. When he's in his cage, Malch refrains from hurting him. Not that she hasn't- her magic can reach him no matter where he is- but she seems to think that so long as he's in his cage he doesn't need any further reminder that she is his jailer.

“Okay,” Shiro lies. He's been holding out as long as possible, testing her patience. Her lips are wet with drool and her stomach is making its presence very known. Shiro would rather she leave him, starve him for a month if she wanted, then have to endure another Feeding Day.

She's excited- and obviously relieved- to hear him say yes. She drops the cleaning rags she's holding without regard and rushes to fetch his muzzle and leash.

Dread has pooled in the pit of his stomach- it has been for a while now, if he's being honest . He has nightmares of so many things now- but the first Feeding Day and the pure, overwhelming horror still has him wake up in a cold sweat (not screaming. Malch is upset when he wakes her over trivial things)

“Get ready,” she instructs.

Shiro moves to the side of the cage, holding his hands out for her to hand over the muzzle. He ties it in place himself, trying to set it as delicately on his raw nose as he can even though the straps always pull it too tight, and then turns obediently so that she can inspect it. When she's sure it's fastened properly she unlocks his cage and lets him crawl out.

She makes a face as he stands up and stretches. Normally she keeps her comments about his smell to herself- and vice versa- but even Shiro can admit he stinks. His bedding is sweat and blood-soaked, and his night sweats have only gotten worse leading up to today.

“Look happy, Champion,” Malch coos at him, “today is the start of a new cycle. You will eat with the High Council and the Emperor today. Who knows what else the future has for us.”

She pronounces the English word so strangely he barely recognizes it. Shiro nods morosely. Speaking Galran is difficult, and speaking at all makes the muzzle dig into his skin even more than it already does. He’s trying to avoid irritating the wound any more than he has to.

Malch laughs at his apprehension, “I don't understand why you let your empathy about killing hinder you here, and yet you can control it in the Arena. Why do you make yourself so upset?”

_Because I don't have a choice in the Arena_ Shiro wants to tell her. Instead he shrugs.

She pats his head, “You will learn to control this empathy, and then killing will only bring you joy. Don’t be ashamed of your bloodlust, you are stronger than you realize, my Champion.”

She dresses in her robes, pulling her hood low over her eyes, and takes up his leash in her hand. 

* * *

They walk through the halls together. Shiro's hands are no longer bound, but Malch still holds the leash that goes to the collar at his throat. Other Galra stepped aside warily, nervous about Shiro's muzzle. He wants to think that if he got the chance he'd give them a reason to be afraid, but he knows better. He's seen what they're capable of. His bite could do some damage but he's no match one-on-one with a Galra.

The Mess Hall is primarily used for storage and combat training, until it's needed for Feeding Day. It's been cleaned, and the banners have been hung proudly. They flash with victories and achievements of the Empire. Some of them Shiro has learned about and others he hasn't heard of. The mix of letters makes his head hurt because he can't keep up with the rapid change in words. There are a lot of victories for the Empire.

Shiro doesn't want to look at the prisoners. He doesn't want to see the dead or the fear in their eyes. He's not even sure if they know why they're here. He catches the tail end of a comment in Galard, just enough to assume that the prisoner is being optimistic that they're going to be sent home. He wants to hide his face in his hands, to bury himself under Malch’s robes and escape this.

He has to look out at the prisoners. He has to know if the Holts are here. Malch said that the Work Camps were exempt from the selection, but she says a lot of things that aren't necessarily true. Shiro doesn't see anything human in the crowd, but not all the prisoners have been brought in yet.

Beside Malch’s seat is a much smaller seat. It's probably for a Galra child, likely an heir, for the decoration and symbols carved into it. Shiro's not sure what to make of it. He’ll have to sit very close to Malch’s chair with this new chair in the way.

Malch laughs at his confusion, “This is for you, Champion.”

He doesn't… understand. Shiro's been beaten senseless for daring to sit at a table with Malch. He's meant to kneel at her feet. This is a test, a joke to be had at his expense. Malch enjoys those.

He looks up at her, refusing to move. He won't give her a reason to throw him in with the other prisoners now. He has to survive today. He’s going to endure the screams, and make her happy by eating whatever she hands to him. He’s going to hate himself, but he’s going to survive.

Malch tugs him and he digs in his heels. She yanks hard enough to choke him, and forces him into the seat. He braces for her to strike him.

“So stubborn,” she sighs, and takes her own seat. She's still holding his leash lightly in her fingers, but makes no other move to punish him.

He feels like a spectacle, a grown man sitting in a chair dwarfed by the ones around him. It's the first time he hasn't had to kneel at Malch’s feet. He's… he's afraid of sitting up amongst the Galra. He's always looked at their feet or up at their faces, and now they're sitting like equals. Does this make him one of them?

Sendak sits down roughly beside him, takes a look at Shiro and bursts into loud laughter.

Sendak talks very fast and with a heavy growling accent that makes it hard for Shiro to follow. He gets pieces of the conversation. Sendak thinks it's hilarious that Shiro is sitting in a chair like a Galra. He wants to know if next time Malch- though Sendak uses a term for Malch that Shiro doesn't know- if next time Malch will give Shiro fur too.

Shiro keeps his head down, and tries not to flinch when Sendak leans in to talk to him. Sendak likes it when he's uncomfortable, but he hasn't made any more attempts on Shiro's life since Malch ripped off his arm.

“See this?” Sendak says slowly, which means he's talking to Shiro, “it's new!”

He holds his new arm in Shiro's face. Sendak has gone through at least four models in the last cycle, still learning to adapt to a prosthetic arm. It's nothing like an earth prosthetic. The Galra don't even try to make their prosthetics look natural. Sendak’s new arm glows with purple light- similar to the light sources on the ship- and his whole arm seems slightly too big for his body. Shirt doesn't know why he would choose something like that. Then again, Sendak loves to smash things. Maybe the arm does make sense for him.

“Is… nice,” Shiro says slowly. He doesn't want to talk to Sendak.

‘“Is nice’” Sendak mimics him in a childish voice, laughing, “this one is much stronger than the last! I'll tear apart anything in my path!”

Shiro shudders at ‘tear’. It has two meanings in Galran- one or violence and one for eating.

“Maybe this Feeding Day will be fun like last time,” Sendak says excitedly, nudging Shiro with the elbow of his flesh arm, “maybe someone else will lose an arm! Ha! What fun!”

Shiro remembers Sendak fighting other Galra for who got to eat his arm, and the excited stories they shared for days afterwards about how fun that had been. Sometimes Shiro feels a little crazy for being the only sane man in the den of monsters.

“Yes. Fun,” Shiro says instead.

There's a commotion in the prisoners. One of them bumped into a bruitish alien and the brute struck them. It appears to have done damage to the smaller alien and the big one was deciding whether to attack again or not.

Shiro recognized the brute from his time in the arena. It had specialized in torturing and drawing out battles for the delight of the Galra. It was also a bully outside of the arena and had threatened Shiro and the Holts over food several times. It's luck had run out, apparently.

The prisoners were trying to lift the injured one into its feet. The brute snapped at them. It made anger pool in Shiro's stomach. Many of the prisoners were good, innocent people. Some of them weren’t. And the innocent didn't deserve to die like this amongst the bad and the cruel.

The pit of dead in Shiro’s gut feels more like a black hole. Every time he starts to feel anything he feels it being drawn into the hole, making it stronger, and it’s barely contained inside of himself. If he opens his mouth too much he thinks he might start screaming and never stop.

“Champion,” Malch says softly, and she reaches out to stroke his hair. He leans into the touch. It’s grounding, “you look sad.” She says it slow enough that Shiro doesn’t have to struggle to translate it.

“Tell me,” she orders.

He leans in his seat to put his head closer to her, so that Sendak or anyone else nearby won’t overhead, “Afraid,” he admits, “this make me… be sick.”

“You ate meat on earth— your kind kills for food. You’ve told me these things,” Malch replies, “why is this so different?”

Shiro doesn’t have the words for it, and gestures at his head, “They think,” he says, and hopes she will understand. He wants to say _sentience_ and explain that humans domesticated animals for eating, but it’s too much for him to try and translate right now.

“You have a strong sense of justice,” Malch muses, and she keeps running her fingers through his hair. Shiro hates how comforting it feels, but lets it wash over him. He wants to forget where he is as long as he can, “perhaps if we were to feed in the Natural Way, you would be happier.”

Shiro doesn’t want to argue with her. He stays silent and lets her continue petting him.

“I will speak with Zarkon and make arrangements. It will be fun for you, Champion. A challenge.”

The horns announcing Emperor Zarkon’s presence interrupt them. Malch pulls her hand away and Shiro sits up. While all of the Galra are watching their Emperor, he’s positive that just as many are looking at him. He is Not Galra, and he is seated much closer to the Emperor than they could ever dream of. He has to be perfect and not embarrass Malch.

The thought has crossed his mind more than once, to act out. To misbehave. This would be the stage to do it. To humiliate her in front of everyone.

But the threat of her teeth— of all of their teeth— on this day keeps him in check. He’ll disobey again when they’ve eaten.

Emperor Zarkon is always imposing. Even his name carries power that makes everyone stand taller when he’s mentioned. He moves slowly and surely, no doubt weak with hunger like all of the Galra, though Shiro can see the power coiled in each of his limbs. Pity the fool that challenges the Emperor.

Shiro stands with the Galra elite around him, and performs their salute as Zarkon takes a seat in his throne. Shiro tries to not feel guilty about it. He doesn’t mean the salute, though he performs it perfectly. He’s not betraying Earth or his country. He’s surviving.

The Emperor is so close that Shiro can see the drool lining his lips. He has much better control of himself than other Galra, like Sendak, who started drooling almost the instant he entered the Mess Hall. The Emperor looks over the High Council gathered together, and his gaze stops on Shiro. He makes no change in expression— Shiro’s not even sure if his leathery face can emote anymore— but Shiro stands straighter. He’s afraid to maintain eye contact and looks away, towards Malch. Her hood is drawn low and Shiro can’t see her eyes from his angle.

Shiro almost wishes he was kneeling at Malch’s feet. He wants her warm hands on him to focus on, and to not be the point of focus for so many Galra.

The Emperor looks away, and holds up his hand to signal everyone to stop speaking. Shiro wants to run. The prisoners are transfixed, watching Zarkon to hear what he’s going to say. How can they not know what’s happening? His body feels cold like he’s been frozen and he can’t move. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.

The Emperor is so loud, and his voice so low, that his words vibrate in Shiro’s chest. It’s a terrifying sensation, as if the Emporer is reaching in and taking hold of Shiro’s organs. Shiro’s aware of the things Zarkon is saying— the speech made before every feast like a prayer before a meal back on Earth— but while he’s hearing the words he can’t hold onto them and they slip out of his mind as soon as the next phrase starts.

Malch has been making him practice, and he at least registers the specific phrases to chant along with the rest of the Galra. His voice is droned out in theirs on the first, and Shiro is very aware of Malch watching him to see that he’s speaking. A lot of the other Galra are probably watching him too, ready to throw accusations of treason if he doesn’t appear to be honoring their traditions.

He chokes on the next round of responses, but manages to raise his voice enough that he knows Malch can hear him.

“Glory to the Emperor. Glory to the Empire. Nothing will stop us but victory or death.”

Shiro’s stomach lurches on the last word, and it catches oddly in his throat. He starts coughing as the Emperor continues his speech. He doesn’t have to look around to know that the Galra are all staring at him making a scene. He cringes low and waits for Malch to strike him. The muzzle presses painfully into the raw skin on his nose. If he’s not careful the scabs and blisters will break and he’ll start bleeding again.

He can feel the energy in the air shifting as the Emperor keeps talking. Shiro recovers, lifts his head up to shout the last line.

“Glory to the Emperor. Glory to the Empire. Nothing will stop us but victory or death.”

And the louder still as the Galra thump their chests and cheer, “Vrepit sa, vrepit sa, vrepit sa!”

The room falls silent, all eyes on the Emperor. He waves the drones forwards, and they begin sorting through the prisoners. The prisoners are so clueless. They have no idea. Shiro’s knees feel weak and he sits back in his chair rather than collapse and cause a scene. While some other Galra are sitting, most are still standing at attention. The movement drew Malch’s attention at least.

She leans in to whisper to him, “You did very good.” He's surprised by how happy the praise makes him feel. It barely alleviates the terror closing in on his mind.

She’s in a good mood, despite how hungry she is. Part of Shiro still wants to grip to the hem of her robes, or to hide behind her chair, and the other part of him wants to start running and screaming and never stop. A small, weak, part of him wants to cut her throat, deep and efficiently, like he’s been taught to for the Arena battles.

“Thank you,” he says politely. Malch doesn’t tolerate rudeness from him.

“Look happy,” Malch insists, “We can leave the last Cycle behind us.”

The [scar tissue](http://demenior.tumblr.com/post/148728279129/i-have-this-little-idea-in-my-head-where-the%20) on Shiro’s abdomen is bubbled and raised, and rubs against his tunic. It’s not painful, or very sensitive anymore, but it’s unfamiliar. A reminder of the first Cycle that he will always have with him now. He won’t forget the First Cycle and everything she’s done to him. But he doesn’t argue with Malch, not right now. He needs her in order to survive this.

“We are renewed on Feeding Day,” he says, repeating the words she’s been making him practice all morning.

Her eyes light up and she gently pats his head as a subtle praise. He feels her claws dig around the straps of the muzzle, and braces when it tugs tight against his face. He clenches his teeth to keep from crying out, and forgets to mind his incisor implants and slices his tongue open. As he registers the sharp pain in his mouth, the muzzle goes slack, as does the collar, and Malch pulls them away from him.

He’s in public and not wearing his muzzle. This isn’t allowed. Shiro keeps his mouth shut, tasting what feels like waves of blood, and looks up at Malch nervously. Without the muzzle and collar, he could just be any prisoner. Did she remove her physical claims to him on purpose?

“You need to eat,” she explains, “besides, you have been so good lately. I don’t think we’ll need this much longer.” She drops the muzzle between them, like a secret.

The blood in his mouth makes the memories of her forcing alien flesh down his throat all the more vivid. Shiro nods quietly, taking in deep breaths of fresh air without the reek of the muzzle. He’s thrown up, bled and sweated into it too many times that the mix of smells will never wash out.

Shiro swallows what he hopes is the last mouthful of blood and murmurs, “Thank you.”

The rattling of the prisoners chains is so loud Shiro can feel it echoing in his skull. There’s a line of them, all being paraded before the Emperor for his selection. Panic is crawling up Shiro’s throat— like bugs all swarming to escape. He can do this. It’s going to be just like the Arena. He just has to tune it all out. Survive until tomorrow.

“Why is _that_ eating with us?” someone shouts from across the hall. There are a few more words in the line that Shiro recognizes as insults, but doesn’t have enough context to know how severe they are. He finds the accusing Galra standing on the other side of the hall, on the Emperor’s far side, and further down the line of chairs. He’s pointing right at Shiro.

Shiro doesn’t have enough vocabulary to even come up with any response, and so he stares blankly. He thinks if he opens his mouth he’ll start screaming.

The Galra takes this as an opening to continue, “It’s not even Galra! It’s _prey_!” All eyes are looking between the speaker and Shiro now. This is causing a scene. This is not the debate Shiro wants to be having right before the feeding begins. He looks to Malch for help.

Malch bears her teeth and rumbles a warning, “Champion has earned his place here. His bloodlust rivals that of any Galra, and his kills number in the hundreds!”

“It is _prey_ and prey does not eat with Galra!” The Galra is using formal tones for the people, and very informal and somewhat crude terms for Shiro.

“Champion has been welcomed by the Emperor. Do you question Lord Zarkons decisions?” Malch snaps back. Shiro wants to crawl under his chair and die. Don't bring the Emperor into this.

The Galra glanced at the Emperor, who still hadn't spoken at the interruption. The accuser obviously wants to argue further, but Malch has the Emperor on her side. The Galra respect their hierarchy more than anything.

“I have enjoyed your matches, Champion,” the Emperor rumbles in his booming voice. He turns to look at Shiro and Shiro scrambles to his feet under the gaze of the huge, ancient Galra, “you are learning our customs, our language and our culture. You are an honoured guest today, warrior. May your bloodlust consume you as you feast with us.”

Shiro nearly knocks the wind out of himself performing his salute, “Vrepit Sa!”

The Emperor has made his selection— all large prisoners that will fill his stomach. Including the brute that attacked the other alien earlier. They huddle together nervously and crane their necks to look up at the Emperor’s face.

The remaining prime selections are brought to Malch and Shiro. Shiro realizes that the small alien— the one who was attacked by the other prisoner earlier— is amongst them. Malch selects two for herself. She has an appetite that betrays her slender figure. Everything about her is a deception. Shiro has never been fooled by her appearance— though he once hoped she was sympathetic and kind the first time she brought him here— but there are many that don’t realize her power. There’s a reason she is the Right Hand to the Emperor.

The remaining prisoners are brought in front of him. Shiro hasn’t dropped his salute. Malch, and everyone else, are watching him. He looks to her for guidance. What’s going on?

“You’re an adult,” Malch whispers, “you can choose for yourself.”

A chill runs down Shiro’s spine. He gets the honor of eating from the same line of prisoners— of _prey_ — that are offered to the Emperor. It’s a huge honor. Not even Sendak gets this honor, and he sits beside Malch, or at least he used to. Whomever Shiro doesn’t choose will be held in case the Emperor is still hungry later on.

The small alien is in the lineup. It is bug-eyed and small only in comparison to the Galra. It's trembling with fear, and has a delicate slender neck like a swan. It doesn't belong in this kind of violence, like Shiro himself.

Shiro lifts his hand and points at the bug-eyed alien. He doesn’t have the words to make his choice known otherwise. The drones secure the bug-eyed alien to the same clamp in the floor as Malch’s prey. Shiro doesn’t have the heart to look at the remaining prisoners. They are all nervously looking around, waiting for something to happen. They’re aware something is strange in the room, but they can’t quite piece together what is about to happen.

The brute alien is yelling at the Emperor. Shiro doesn’t know enough Galard to understand what the awful alien is saying to him, but it’s close enough to Low Galra that he thinks he has an idea. He’s being insulted, he’s sure of it. He closes his eyes to try and block out the other prisoners being led to their final stand in front of a salivating Galra, but he can hear the chains rattling like bells.

The Galra start removing their clothing to keep it clean. It took Shiro a while to realize that they don’t wear clothing for modesty, but instead for organization. They wear certain clothes to designate exactly where they stand in the social hierarchy and what their job is. Shiro isn’t sure what his tunic means, but he knows Malch has talked about getting him a robe like hers soon.

Shiro knows that the Galra don’t have any modesty— they’re covered in fur anyways— but he doesn’t feel comfortable stripping down in front of so many strangers. He pulls his tunic over his head, but decides to keep his pants on. The cold hits him hard, and he shivers badly. The ships are always so cold, since the Galra have fur to keep them warm, but without fur Shiro is almost constantly shivering and trying to keep his hands from seizing up in the cold.

The small alien is staring at him with too-big eyes. It’s big enough that Shiro can’t wrap his hands around it’s throat easily— it’s meant to feed a Galra after all— and it looks almost docile. Like it trusts him to save it. It must recognize Shiro as a fellow prisoner.

“Hello,” it mouths at him. Shiro shakes his head and looks away. He can’t talk to it. He can’t be friendly with what he has to kill. It’s him or the alien, and Shiro has decided that he's going to survive.

He’s saved from small-talk by the Emperor beginning the final speech. It’s less of a speech than it is a boast— getting all of the Galra in the room worked up into a feeding frenzy. For a moment Shiro wonders how the rest of the Galra celebrate Feeding Day. This controlled banquet is for the Emperor and the High Council, and Malch said something about the Natural Way being done planetside. He recalls some drones going door-to-door offering catalogues for prey delivery to private quarters and decides he doesn’t want to think any more on the subject.

The energy is electric, igniting the dread that has been crystallizing in Shiro’s stomach all morning. He’s going to be sick, he’s sure of it. When the Galra start cheering, he wants to scream but he cheers with them. He has to play along. The Emperor lifts his head and roars, so loud that the ship seems to shake and Shiro feels some impulse of primitive human survival instincts and wants to start running. But he doesn’t. He plays along, lets himself be swept up with the rising cheer around him, adding his voice in and he is screaming now. He doesn’t know if he’s saying anything but he can’t stop.

The prisoners in front of the Emperor are trying to run, but their chains are keeping them in place. The cheering, the screaming, doesn’t end when the Emperor drops to all fours to reach his meal. It intensifies, becoming a living thing itself and Shiro is caught up in it. He wills the Emperor to kill the alien with one bite. For some small mercy.

The feast has begun.

Malch takes off like a rocket, and barrels down onto her two prey. She pins one and begins ripping it apart while the other— and Shiro’s chosen— freeze in terror. Sendak on Shiro’s other side is grappling with his prey and laughing. He’s having fun. His prey isn’t.

Shiro walks into the massacre, trying to step around the blood sprayed on the floor. The bug-eyed alien focuses on him.

“Help us!” it shouts, and a lot of other words in Galard that Shiro doesn’t know. Shiro stops cold. It didn’t even ask for the specific help _me_. It wants to save the others. It probably knows most of these prisoners, is friends with them.

Galard is spoken differently than High or Low Galran, but it’s easier on Shiro’s throat. He wishes Malch had spent more time teaching that to him than the outdated High Galran.

“I… not,” he manages to say, “I must.” he adds, as if that somehow makes it better.

The bug-eyed alien is trembling, and it starts crying. Shiro hasn’t seen an alien that sheds tears in a long time. His own vision gets blurry and then he realizes he’s crying as well.

“Galra eat me,” he tries to explain, “I must.”

“No! No, no, no!” the bug-eyed alien pleads. Malch snaps something in her jaws as she twists her head, and the alien she’s eating screams in a way that makes Shiro gag.

“Quickly,” Shiro insists, “not pain.”

The bug-eyed alien begins sobbing. It’s breathing hitches and Shiro feels sick to his stomach. It almost sounds human.

“Don’t eat me,” it begs, “please spare me. You’re not Galra! You don’t have to do this!”

The other alien that was covering with the bug-eyed alien is jerked away as Malch yanks its chain towards her. Another round of screaming and crunching commences. Shiro is standing in front of the bug-eyed alien, barefoot, and he realizes that he has no weapons. In the Arena he can make his kills quick and merciful because he has a range of weapons to choose from. Here, he has his own two hands. Looking down at them, they seem so small and soft compared to the claws and fangs of the Galra. They’re useless for this.

He has the canine implants. They make eating easier, when he does eat. But he doesn’t have the distended jaws or jowls of a Galra. It will take him too long to kill the alien with a bite. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Mercy,” the alien begs, “don’t kill me. I have family! They will pay ransom!”

“Not want to,” Shiro chokes out, “not want to.” He drops to his knees in front of the bug-eyed alien. It’s shaking so badly he wonders if it might just die from terror. They’re both crying, sitting in the middle of the nightmare that is Feeding Day.

Unconsciousness is something Shiro knows very well these days. The slide into forced sleep, where reality is blurring and everything seems far away. It’s the most painless way to go.

He reaches for the bug-eyed alien’s throat, both of them still crying.

“Not pain,” Shiro promises, “mercy.”

The alien starts crying harder, and the alien Malch is eating screams louder. Shiro starts to squeeze, and the alien doesn’t fight back. He squeezes until the alien starts to jerk, fighting back on reflex and slips out of Shiro’s grasp. It’s gasping for air and they’re both still crying.

“I don’t want to die,” it sobs.

Shiro doesn’t have a response. He knows how this ends. The alien has to die or he will, and Shiro isn’t a hero. He’s just a survivor. He gets his arm around the aliens neck, pulling his forearm tight to create a clamp that’s harder to escape. The alien starts fighting him, desperate for air despite knowing this is the best way. Shiro feels muscles in his arms and back strain and ache with exertion. He’s crying, and trying to comfort the alien as best he can. It’s a mix of English, Japanese, Galard and Galran.

“Mercy!” it begs with it’s last breath, “don’t let me die here.”

Shiro can’t hold it. He drops the alien and it slumps defeatedly on the floor, wheezing for air. Shiro is on his hands and knees, gasping for breath as if he were the one being choked to death.

“Champion!” he hears Malch call. He’s afraid, he’s so afraid. She’s going to kill him. He can’t kill. In front of the entire High Council and in front of the Emperor, he hasn’t killed yet, “aren’t you hungry?”

Shiro lifts his head to look at her, and feels a surge of energy. It’s reckless, and heady, and fills him with adrenaline. He meets her gaze where she is standing over the half-eaten carcass of her second alien. There’s blood and gristle staining her jaw and down her front.

“No,” Shiro says, loud enough that she can hear, “no killing.”

Malch’s ears flatten against her head and her hackles rise. She looks like a demon.

“Champion!” she snarls, “kill!”

They’ve caught the attention of other Galra in the room, shocked out of their frenzy. Even the Emperor is watching while he finishes chewing a particularly tough chunk of shell.

Shiro feels giddy. He’s going to die, he realizes, but he’s going to humiliate Malch before he does, “No!” he shouts louder than before. He feels spurred on, like a child delighting in the power of a new word, “No! No! No!”

Sendak is laughing, and striding forwards.

“Useless,” he laughs, “empathy is for the weak, and for _prey_.”

He’s going to eat the bug-eyed alien. For all his bravado, Shiro knows he can’t prevent that death. But he won’t be the one to kill. Not this time.

Malch crumples Sendak’s prosthetic with magic before he can use it to kill the bug-eyed alien.

“Champion!” she shouts, and there’s venom in her voice like Shiro has never heard. His courage is fading, and fear is taking hold. He wants to beg for mercy.

Malch reaches him and shoves him, enough that she nearly dislocates his shoulder as he tumbles into the bug-eyed alien.

“This is your prey,” Malch insists, “feed!”

The bug-eyed alien is crying again. Shiro wants to obey, but he knows he can’t. He knows he won’t. He will be merciful in killing, but he cannot be cruel. He’s not Galra.

He looks up at Malch, at the terrifying alien towering over him that abuses him in one instant and praises him the next. That makes him sleep in a cage, and sometimes in her bed when the nights are too cold. That makes him butcher his own meat, that trains him for battle and makes him kill in the Arena. This alien that puts a muzzle and collar on him, and tends to his wounds when he’s injured.

He hates her. He hates her more than he’s hated anything in his life.

“No,” Shiro spits at her.

Malch screams, enraged, and she hits him.

* * *

Shiro wakes up lying in his side, with a pounding headache, and he’s chilled to the bone. It’s how he knows he’s still alive. Hell will be a welcome respite after the things he’s done in the frigid Galra ships.

He opens his eyes and can’t get them to focus. Malch has hit him this hard before— he’s sure he’s concussed. And while the thought seems quite straightforward to him, Shiro is sure it’s taken him several minutes to make this conclusion. He tries to turn his head into the floor, to press his forehead against a cool surface, but he’s wearing his muzzle again. He doesn’t have his shirt on, and his arms are handcuffed behind his back.

With a groan he rolls onto his stomach and has to wait for the nausea to pass. He can feel the pull on his skin where he must have sprawled in blood, and it’s dried tacky on his body. It takes a lot of effort to get himself upright, perched on his knees. The chain on his wrists connects him to the floor— the same pin that’s used for holding the prisoners in the mess hall. It makes sense that they’d want him awake when they eat him.

Shiro doesn’t know this cell. It’s too dark to make out any details. But it smells like blood.

He brought this on himself, he thinks. He defied Malch, and humiliated her in front of the High Council. She thought she’d broken him but he’d proved her wrong. The thought both pleases and disappoints him.

As if the thought summons her, the door creaks open with a blinding flash of light from the outside, and Malch walks in. She’s fat, and her silver hair is still matted with blood and other fluids. It might still be Feeding Day. She’s probably still hungry.

Shiro stays quiet. He doesn’t have anything to say in his defense.

“Ungrateful,” Malch snarls. She’s sluggish with post-feeding fatigue, so not much time has passed. It may have only been hours since Shiro refused to obey. He keeps his head down.

“After all I have done for you!” she says, and even though he’s expecting it, her backhand still takes him by surprise. He hits the floor hard and just manages to turn his head to avoid knocking the muzzle into his face.

“They all thought you were weak— a primitive, stupid species that wandered too far from home. That your victory in the Arena was a mistake. But I knew,” Shiro pushed himself back to his knees to wait for her next hit, “I knew that there was strength in you. And cunning. You needed to be educated, and tempered, but I knew I could make you great.”

She’d talked both of them into a false lull, and so her next strike made Shiro cry out in surprise. He was tossed back against the wall, the chain on his wrists straining and causing him to twist and hit shoulder-and-head-first into the cold metal.

“I brought you out of the darkness— I saved you from the prisons on the day you were to be eaten— and I remade you! And this is how you repay me?”

Shiro struggled to control his breathing. His vision was spinning and his arm was numb from the shoulder down. He clenched his teeth and tried to avoid showing his pain. Malch had always appreciated his control. He felt so guilty he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He’d been such an idiot—rebelling over something as small as killing. He’d killed hundreds of times. What made today any different? Why had he been so impulsive? He ruined the only thing keeping him alive, just as everything was going so well.

“They thought you were too stupid to understand our ways, but I saw your potential. They underestimated you and you surpassed their highest expectations. I thought I knew you, and it appears that even I was wrong.”

Every point is made with a fist. Shiro wants to spit at her. He also wants to beg for forgiveness.

“I spent so much time on you,” she growls, “wasted my efforts. An entire cycle! I rebuilt you, I taught you, I even welcomed you into my home.”

Shiro thinks of the cage— with it’s invitingly warm, soft blankets stained with his blood and sweat from night terrors. He thinks of the hours he’s spent in there, forcing himself to be silent as he cries and longs to scream in terror and loneliness. He thinks of how safe he feels every night when Malch closes the door behind him, and he knows that he’s survived another day.

When she kicks him, he feels a rib snap. She doesn’t let him recover from the pain and grabs him by the hair, punctuating her words by yanking his hair back to expose his throat to her and cracking his head into the wall.

“I built you stronger! I improved your body, your teeth, everything! And then you humiliate me? In front of the High Council, the Emperor! They all want to eat you! But I argued for you! Once again, my intervention saved you! Your life is mine! Has always been mine!”

Shiro can’t do anything but gasp for air. He tries to focus on anything, to calm his spinning vision, and makes eye contact with her. He freezes, holding it.

“You think you had power, in resisting me today. But you are not capable of planning such a thing, no,” she said, thinking out loud, “no. You _are_ mine. This was an impulse. But no matter what you believe, you will not always fight me like this. You started the cycle very poorly, my Champion. It will not be good to you, mark my words.”

“T-thank you,” Shiro manages to reply. Hopefully she will kill him quickly. Or better, she’ll knock him unconscious and eat him while he sleeps.

Her backhand catches him completely off-guard and right in the muzzle. His nose crunches loudly and blood gushes into his mouth as the metal bites deep into his flesh. Shiro gasps for breath through his mouth, spitting out mouthfuls of blood. His vision goes white with pain.

Malch grabs him by the crumpled muzzle and drags him up, until he is nearly standing, “Do not lie to me,” she snaps, “do not _ever_ lie to me! I know you hate me. I know your potential. You promised to do well by me, and you lied then. You are lying now. Your words are useless. I will see what your actions yield, and I may yet decide to kill you another day.”

The wave of relief that crashes over Shiro would have brought him to his knees if Malch wasn’t holding him up. He is struggling to breathe, and gulping down hot blood from his broken nose.

“But you’ll keep me?” he whispers.

The look on her face changes entirely. She nearly drops him, but catches him before his knees hit the floor and gently lowered him down. Shiro shudders at the touch, at the hands that leave bloody smears on his clothes. He feels a ghost of her magic and the handcuffs holding his arms back fall loose.

She touches his face, where the muzzle is embedded in the cartilage of his nose and every moment _hurts_ in ways Shiro can’t quite quantify just yet. His head is light and the pain feels all too real but also very far away. Malch is looking for something, but he doesn’t know what.

“You’ll keep me,” he asks again, to confirm.

She shows her fangs, but he knows this is a grin this time. She gathers him up in her arms— in a hug, nearly— and she is so warm and soft compared to the cold metal of the cell that Shiro melts into the touch.

Her breath is warm down his neck as she whispers to him, “You are deceitful and traitorous, but you are mine. There is forgiveness in this old heart yet. Yes, I shall keep you.”

He’s still choking on blood, but it’s definitely a sob that catches in his throat. He’s going to live. She’s going to let him live. Malch cares about him.

He may have passed out in her embrace, because when he opens his eyes, she is lifting him to his feet. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. Her claws trail lightly down his cheek and he feels a numbing sensation spread from them across his face like a breath of cold air. It relaxes him and so he doesn’t brace for when she rips the muzzle away, cracking his nose loudly as cartilage catches on the wire frame.

She’s speaking in a low tone, powerful words collecting in the air between them, and she passes them over the wound on his face and presses them into his skin. Shiro doesn’t have a mirror to know what she’s done, but the gouge in his skin feels _less_.

“The healers are sleeping,” Malch explains, “you will have to wait until tomorrow for their assistance.”

Shiro draws a shaky breath— through his mouth, still, and thankfully the blood flow is slowing.

“Thank you,” he says. And he means it.

The halls are completely empty, and the lights are dim for sleeping. Drones are already patrolling the eerily quiet ship, and beginning to start cleaning the bloodstains off the walls and mopping floors where bloody footprints track the way back to warm beds. Malch nearly carries him the entire way home. Shiro doesn’t want to let her go.

Coming home feels warm, and happy, for the first time in Shiro’s time with Malch. He’s happy to see everything. It’s familiar, and safe in its familiarity. The charts on the wall detailing his progress in the Arenas, the anatomy charts that Malch painstakingly wrote out with Shiro’s input. The shelves of plants and herbs and bones for spells and magic, the talismans that Malch has collected over the years like the black, cracked helmet from a lifetime ago or the piece of fabric from Shiro’s spacewalking suit that had his name embroidered on it.

Malch opens the cage and for once Shiro doesn’t want to go in. He’s warm, and for the moment, he’s safe with her.

“The cage tonight,” she says sternly, and licks his blood off of her fingers, “you smell so delicious, my Champion, that I might eat you in my sleep.”

She’s smiling, it’s just a joke, but Shiro sees the sense in sleeping in the cage anyways. He crawls in willingly, taking refuge in the small space and drawing his blankets tight around him.

She doesn’t lock the cage and even leaves the door ajar. Malch collapses into bed quickly, and falls asleep just as fast. She has incredible willpower to have stayed awake the whole time, Shiro notes. She’s always stronger than he gives her credit for. He should have known by now not to underestimate her.

He’s going to live. Shiro’s eyes are so heavy with sleep, even though he hasn’t eaten. He’s only just beginning to feel the first few pangs of hunger, but he’ll last until his next Arena match. Then he’ll show Malch that she can be proud of him.

She spared him, just because she loves him. He has to make sure that she doesn’t regret that decision. He has to be Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this is where Shiro's facial scar comes from)
> 
> *Shiro's teeth implants give him an Interview With A Vampire-kinda feel, where he's got the subtle double-sharp-teeth look. ([see here](http://www.tomcruisefan.com/gallery/albums/albums/movies/interview-with-the-vampire/caps/interview-with-the-vampire-195.jpg))
> 
> **[here's a silly drawing ft Shiro's scars if you're interested](http://demenior.tumblr.com/post/149594709794/bunny-loverxiv-requested-shiro-andor-allura-in)
> 
> ***Again, if you're interested in Haggar's thoughts during her encounter with Shiro in the cell after Feeding, then go read No Greater Heaven. It's an incredibly good Haggar fic, and does her and Shiro so right. The scene of Haggar and Shiro in the cell is my loving ode to that fic, and this entire series was very much inspired by the relationship Serbajean set up in the fic! It's so worth reading!
> 
> *If you would like to use Feeding Day, or anything inspired by this series in a fic, let us know! We would love to see other people playing in our sandbox and spreading some Awful Things across the fandom!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Feeding Day the 3rd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Both of us authors for this series want to give a sincere thank you to everyone who’s commented and read this fic! We love all of you!
> 
> *And, we also realized that we’ve forgotten to mention a very important thing: this series is actually considered to be an open sandbox concept! What this means is that if you’re inspired by this series, or if you want to use any of our ideas in your own fic, or you want to write something set in this ‘universe’ that we’ve created, then please do!!! For our own purposes, anything not written by the two of us won’t officially be ‘canon’ to this series, but we wanna see what y’all can come up with!!!
> 
> *More good news! I bet y’all noticed that suddenly there’s 5 chapters for Little Monster! This is because your authors are incredibly bad at math and while we were making sure our timelines were correct for Feeding Days, we realized that there actually needs to be five for our purposes, woops! So this means you have two more chapters to look forwards to :)  
> 
> *Links in the chapter are for visual purposes only! None of them are nsfw, but still open at your own discretion! 
> 
> *And in case you haven't read it, last chapters end scene- and this series as a whole- was heavily inspired by [ No Greater Heaven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7631677) by Serbajean. Please check it out!! It's incredible!! 
> 
> *About 7 months have passed since Shiro’s capture

The shuttle descends and lands smoothly on the planet's surface. Normally for planetside visits Shiro is captivated by staring out the window and seeing as much of the new world as he can, but today he keeps his eyes on Malch.

None of the other passengers dare bother them— for all their arrogance all Galra get skittish when they see Druids, and while Shiro is only wearing apprentice robes, the low hood obscuring his face is still enough to make everyone give him a wide berth.

He keeps his hands together in his lap, doing his best to obscure the missing Champions ring. He’s been wearing it so long that he feels naked without it.

Shiro is acutely aware he's the second one ever to know what losing the ring feels like. All the others have been too dead to care. He's determined to be the first to win it back.

Malch won't look at him, and that hurts more than the absence of his ring. She's been silent for the entire ride from their ship down to the planet. Normally she likes to tell him about what they're going to see, and quiz him on his studies.

They're the first to depart the shuttle, and Shiro walks quickly to stay just a step behind her. He wants to stay in the corner of her vision so that she can't forget he's there.

The first thing Shiro notices is the heat. It's wet, thick and heavy, like walking into a sauna. It makes him start sweating immediately, and he can't imagine how Malch and the other Galra handle it with their fur.

The Range Facilities are Galra-cold, thankfully. It gives Shiro a chill to go from such heat to such cool temperature again. There are many Galra milling about in the lobby. Many of them have already forgone their clothes or are wearing lighter clothes for the heat, and instead adorned with jewelry to declare their status. Shiro makes sure that his hands are inside his robe. He doesn't want to project his loss any more than he has to.

Malch strides through the crowd in the lobby without care for anyone in her way. Shiro follows as quickly as he can, but while the Galra part for Malch, they start to crowd around for him. Not many of them have seen a dead man walking. Shiro keeps his head down, focuses only on staying with Malch, and ignores the commentary that starts as he passes.

As a member of the High Council, and the Emperor's Right Hand, Malch is afforded the best accommodations. Their luggage has already been delivered to their room, and Shiro's stomach knots when he sees that Malch brought his cage along with them.

It's a new cycle today. He’d been hoping she would feel more festive. She's forced him to sleep in the cage again ever since he lost the fight. He doesn't know how he ever slept well in it before, especially after the luxury of being allowed to sleep in Malch’s bed.

They're only staying for the night, so they both packed lightly. Shiro has books he's been studying, which he sets out on the table. He doesn't sleep as long or as much as Malch does after eating, so he's going to take the time to get ahead of Cassak in their studies.

Shiro unpacks Malch’s things as well. She has books too— they're both avid readers and like to read before bed, though hers are often in High Galran and a little too advanced for Shiro still— and she brought some pungent herbs to make the space smell more like home. Shiro tasks himself with scenting the suite while Malch inspects it to make sure it's up to standard. She looks away from him if he gets too close to her.

She's going to have to acknowledge him eventually. Shiro's longing to speak with her again, but he's afraid of where that conversation might lead. He misses her easy company.

But she saved him from certain death when he lost his match in the Arena. That has to mean she still wants him. She hasn't muzzled him again, and she hasn't taken his robes. He has to believe this will pass. Today they can leave the old cycle behind them.

There's a few hours until the ceremonies start. Shiro had hoped they could spend it together— walking through the resort or find a secluded area so Shiro could practice his magic. He wants to practice summoning fire, since that's one he can't practice in a spaceship.

He's not sure how to approach her, but she always chided him when he tried to cling onto the old cycles. She catches him staring and makes a scene of moving to the other side of the room to avoid him. She hasn't even removed her robes, even though there's no need to wear them. She just wants every excuse to not have to look at him, even wearing her hood drawn low. Shiro can't imagine how disappointed she is in him— though he knows how awful he feels about his failure— but she needs to let it go. Shiro is willing to make it up to her. He's going to train harder, and do better in his studies. Once he's perfect then he’ll never let her down again, but first they have to get past this.

“Malch,” Shiro starts. She doesn't even twitch her ear to acknowledge him. He starts walking towards her, to stand at her side.

“Malch it's a new—”

“The dead do not speak,” she growls.

“It's a new cycle. We have to put this behind—”

She grabs him by the throat, surprisingly careless in how her claws cut him, “The dead do _not speak_!” she snaps.

She squeezes his throat enough to choke him, holding on to make it clear that she doesn't want him to speak again. Shiro gasps for air, doubling over, once she releases him.

“Malch,” he croaks, pleading.

“If you speak to me again I might just eat you now,” she snarls, “do not bother me.”

And that's the crux of it. She hasn't decided if he's worth keeping or not. But she has to decide today. On the start of a new cycle: will she let Shiro live, or will she move on to something (someone) else?

Shiro obediently stays quiet, and decides to step onto the balcony. It's as close to actually leaving the room as he dares. He can't let Malch think life will be better without him, but for now he needs to let her anger settle.

The heat rolls over him and he removes his apprentice robes. They're wonderful for the chill of the Galra ships, but in this heat they're only a hazard. He traces the patterns on the material— all runes he hand-stitched himself with Malch’s guidance— and thinks fondly on those nights. Things have been so good for them, and now she might be thinking of casting hium aside

If only he hadn't been so stupid. He was reckless and arrogant, and hadn't done enough combat training. He should have pushed through the pain instead of taking it easy in training, and he should have known to study a wider variety of weapons. Malch had given him everything, put her faith and pride on his successes, and he’d let her down. He’d humiliated her in front of everyone— even the Emperor. It was the worst kind of relief, to wake up in the med bay and realize he was alive, that she’d intervened and saved him. But he'd lost. After so many matches, and so many kills, he’d lost a match. It shouldn’t have been possible.

Not that Shiro was anything but a disappointment. His magicks were on the same level as Cassak’s, and she was a juvenile. Younger than he was, really. And Shiro still stumbled on new phrases or words in Galran, and he often mixed up the Low and High languages.

He’d never had a successful Feeding Day. Malch needed to hand-feed him like a child on his first, and then he’d refused to kill— in front of the Emperor no less— on the second. Shiro couldn’t even remember why it had been so important for him to not kill. He’d killed hundreds of time by then, and yet he couldn’t act like an adult and make one more kill.

No wonder Malch wanted nothing to do with him. He was a failure all around. She was probably expecting him to embarrass her again today. To do something stupid, like try to release the prisoners before they were let into the Range.

That wouldn’t happen today, Shiro reminded himself. He was determined to start this cycle off properly. He’d never done so, in all his time with Malch so far. He always managed to screw up Feeding Day. Today he was going to kill, and Malch would be proud of him.

But to be proud of him for killing was superficial. Shiro killed all the time. He’d been making weapon-less kills since the last Feeding Day when the lack of weaponry had caused him to panic. Malch had made sure he had no more reservations about using his hands or teeth. And it was expected of him to make a kill on Feeding Day, because he needed to eat. How embarrassing for him to be expecting her to be proud of him, to want to keep him, for doing the bare minimum of what was expected of him. Malch thought he was meant for great things. She only liked interesting things that defied her expectations.

Shiro has to do better than what is expected. He has to excel. He has to _impress_. That’s the only way he can convince Malch not to kill him today. He looks out over the enclosure. It’s white walls rise high above the treetops, and it stretches for miles. His fate will be decided in there.

He looks back inside, at Malch’s proud form sitting over the table and trying to busy herself in her studies. He’s not sure what else she is interested in, as he’s been her main project. But she must be working on something to distract her from him. Maybe she’s trying to find his replacement. That worries him even more.

He doesn’t think her anger has subsided, but risks need to be made. Shiro leaves his robes on the balcony, and makes his way back inside. It’s as cold as the ships inside, and he’s chilled to the bone almost immediately. Bravado has him moving to stride up to her, to speak to her as if they’re both human, but Shiro stops himself. He’s smarter than this. Malch allows him so much freedom, more than he deserves, but he needs to show some tact. That he knows his place, and that he knows his worth is based on her favor. Instead of walking, and meeting her at eye-level, he gets down onto all fours.

Shiro crawls close enough to touch her knee. He expects her to kick him, or break his hand, but he has to risk that pain. It's worth it.

She looks down on him with a snarl on her lips.

“Malch,” Shiro pleads, and he's desperate enough to reach for her hand. Her hands seem slight and delicate compared to the rest of her, but Shiro knows firsthand the terrible power in them.

“Malch,” Shiro repeats, hoping that she hears him when he says, “let me hunt for you.”

It's huge, what he's asking. Galra hunt for themselves. If one is too sick to hunt it's considered weakness, and death is deserved. Shiro's learned that attitudes are changing, but it's still difficult to be a Galra who can't hunt.

It's another thing entirely to be completely capable, as Malch is, and let someone hunt for you. In his readings Shiro is pretty sure it used to be a romantic gesture like an engagement. But now it's an act of trust. To not hunt for yourself puts the Galra at risk of not eating this cycle, which will almost certainly kill them.

Malch’s ears come forwards. She's very aware of what Shiro is asking of her. A chance to redeem himself, to save himself.

“What can you kill?” She huffs, “you are a disappointment.”

Her words hurt more than anything Shiro’s endured so far. He bites back tears and strengthens his resolve. If he can't make her love him again now, he won't have any chance this good during the next cycle. Being out of her favor is as good as dead. She’ll find a new project in the arena and forget about Shiro. He can't let that happen.

He grips her hand tightly until she looks him in the eyes. Her lips are drawn back in a snarl.

“I love you,” Shiro says, and he throws in every Galran word he has to try and express what she means to him— master, mother, sister, lover, creator, and still none of these words come close to truly explaining who she is to him— and exposes himself raw to her, “I love you. Let me kill for you.”

Her snarl subsides in her surprise at his words. She pulls her hand away, and she neither smiles nor strikes him. After a tense moment, she reaches out and Shiro forces himself to remain still for whatever her reaction is. She runs her fingers through his hair and sighs.

“You are a disappointment. But you are still mine. I saw you and I made you from that frightened creature I found in the cells. I trained you to kill and you have always denied my teaching,” her hand fists painfully in his hair and she drags him upright to growl in his face, “now you are worthless and yet you _still_ want me.”

She drops him on the ground and he doesn't bother to get up, just waits for her response.

“Yes,” she finally concedes, “kill for me. Prove that you are worth keeping.”

Shiro is very aware that if he fails, she will eat him. She has to survive, after all. And if there are any teeth Shiro wants to die in, he will be happy it will be hers.

 

* * *

 

The lobby is full with impatient, starving Galra. This isn’t the organized, calm march of the High Council that Shiro is used to. These are the common folk, on vacation, and attempting to reconnect with their ancestors by feeding nearly the same way they used to before they discovered space flight. They snap at one another, and many of them eye Shiro hungrily. He doesn’t have his robe, or even his ring to protect him, so he bares his teeth in response and follows the lines heading for the waiting rooms.

Malch is, for once, following him. It makes him nervous— he’s not entirely sure what’s going to happen or even where he’s going— but it’s still a comfort to have her nearby. They pass through a hallway with windows facing into the enclosure, and Shiro glances out to the landscape below. It’s huge, the enclosure, with towering, impassable walls to block it in, and a tangle of jungle contained inside. Prisoners have already been let loose, and some Galra stop to watch them run around through breaks in the trees. Shiro sees some of the prisoners walking in a group and eating the leaves. Others are laying down in patches of sunlight. They can’t see the Galra watching them from above, or they don’t care. They’re too calm, which means that they don’t know why they’re in the enclosure. He can’t decide if it’s kind or cruel, and figures that in the end it doesn’t matter. They’re all going to die anyways.

The waiting room is a large hall. Galra are milling about, counting down the minutes to when the gates will open. Juveniles, already as large or taller than Shiro himself, have gathered in one corner and are wrestling excitedly. It’s probably their first Feeding Day out of the home, now that they’re big enough to fend off any hungry adults that see them as an easy meal.

The Galra are pressed so close together that Shiro loses Malch in the crowd. If he cranes his neck he thinks he can get a glimpse of her silver hair, but otherwise she’s hard to distinguish from the others. He takes a moment to center himself, and then reaches out with his aura like she’s been training him to do.

It’s not hard to find her, to feel her. She’s like a flame and he’s the moth. He doesn’t latch onto her, like he has in their training, but instead makes sure she knows his location. She sends him her disappointment and irritation in him. Even though he can’t see her, now he can be sure that she can find him once they’re outside.

“Prey belong outside,” a Galra growls at Shiro, and snaps his teeth at him.

Shiro rounds to face him, clicking his own teeth together as a threat. He has his retort— his titles, minus that of Champion ready to list off, but the Galra recognizes his white bangs and backs away.

“Apologies, Druid,” the Galra insists, and immediately starts looking for Malch. Shiro could correct him that he’s not actually a Druid, he’s only an apprentice, but he lets the fault slide. The whisper of Druid has created a space in the crowd for him, and he’s grateful to not be jostled around by the larger aliens.

A horn blasts in the waiting chamber, and a loud cry goes up amongst the Galra. They all cease their chatter and turn to face the big doors at the far end of the hall. There are screens with large speakers placed around the room so that everyone can see the Emperor's face on them.

Emperor Zarkons voice cracks out into the silence. He still sounds massive, like his presence fills the room, but there's a lack of bass in his voice that confuses Shiro. His face isn't as weathered, and in fact he's missing some of his scars. He looks much younger, and while Shiro only sees the Emperor on Feeding Day, he feels like the Emperor can't have changed that much in one cycle. Some Galra near Shiro are mouthing the words as they shuffle in place, not even looking at the screen.

Oh, Shiro realizes, this is a recording.

“Who is that?” One of the juveniles whispers at its friend. They're too excited to be discreet, but most of the adults just flicker an ear and don't give the kids any more attention.

“That's the Emperor, yknow, a while back,” one of the friends replies, “they’ve been showing the same boring speech for cycles now.”

“Is he even Galra?” The third asks, “I've never seen anyone that old.”

“Well, he's dead now,” the second says. Shiro's heart skips a beat. The emperor is dead? That can't be right— Malch would say something. They would have left immediately.

“The Emperor can never die,” a nearby adult butts in.

“That's what our Malch says,” the Galra youth replies.

“Your Malch is a fool,” the adult says, “the Emperor, like the Empire, is eternal. Long may he reign.”

Shiro snaps to attention as he hears the Emperor pause, and performs his salute.

“Glory to the Emperor. Glory to the Empire. Nothing will stop us but victory or death.”

Not all of the Galra perform the salute, and many still don't even say all of the words. This isn't the patriotic High Council that Shiro is used to. Some of them give him sideways glances for shouting so loud. He never realized how out of touch the High Council was from the common Galra.

Despite the embarrassment of standing out so much, Shiro makes sure to salute loudly every time. He knows Malch will hear his voice and hopes that she'll be proud of his dedication and honor to the Empire. All of the Galra join in at the end for the final triumphant repetition of  “ _Vrepit Sa! Vrepit Sa! Vrepit Sa!”_

They all begin cheering and roaring, leaping in place and jostling one another. Shiro waits for the Emperor's final remarks. Usually the drones would be separating the choice prisoners from the masses to present them to the Emperor and Malch.

The bay doors open, blinding Shiro with sunlight. He has to start running with the pack of Galra to avoid being trampled. A final horn blasts, marking the beginning of the new cycle and the start of Feeding Day.

The humid heat hits like diving into a pool, and Shiro feels drenched only steps onto the dirt of the enclosure. He keeps running, Galra around him are dropping onto all fours or lumbering along on two feet still, all heading for the tree line where the prey are waiting.

He has no way to keep track of Malch in the chaos, and calls out in their bond so that she can find him. She locks onto him like a cold dagger between his shoulder blades, and he shudders despite the heat.

Shiro knows his limits— he can't fight a hungry Galra right off the bat. He's going to head in deeper, where he has a better chance of flushing out prey and less competition. A Galra in front of him dives into some twisted roots, and drags a screaming alien out by its leg. Shiro doesn’t pause to look. He jumps over a flailing arm and continues into the woods.

The enclosure is made up of the planet's natural flora, allowed to grow under guidance to keep plants with undesirable smells or poisons out. There was a notable occurrence during a Feeding Day in which the prey poisoned themselves to escape death, and Galra who ate them were all deathly ill for days afterwards.

This planet seems like a rainforest. The forest is a jungle— thick moss and vines cover all of the trunks, and the root systems are largely exposed, providing lots of opportunities to hide. It’s a playground, nearly, for any Galra. All they have to do is smell out the prey and then corner them.

Shiro’s already having trouble breathing in the humidity. Galra ships are cold and very dry, to accommodate for their thick fur. He’s not used to this kind of climate, and it may have been a mistake to wear his tunic into the enclosure. It’s soaked through with sweat and humidity already, and will only get dirtier as the day goes on.

He’s barefoot, and slides on the soft undergrowth as he runs. The roots are heavy and solid under his feet, but padded with moss. It makes it easier to keep his pace, but he tries to be wary of stepping on anything sharp. Drawing blood would not be a good idea.

The forest is alive with sound— excited Galra shrieking and cackles, and the screams of prey being devoured. The sounds are comforting in their familiarity, and they remind Shiro that he has a deadline.

He can feel Malch following him. She won't have any trouble keeping up, and so he doesn't bother slowing down to wait for her. He needs to act fast.

Shiro is so focused on looking for hiding places that he doesn't expect the prey to be looking for him. He's caught off guard, tackled by what feels like a linebacker, and finds himself looking up into a long mouth full of needle-sharp teeth and dozens of jello-red eyes.

“SKKREEEEEE-UUHHHHH!” the [Taxxon ](http://animorphs.wikia.com/wiki/Taxxon)shrieks and it tries to eat him.

Shiro rolls quickly, scrambling to get back to his feet. Who in their right mind put a Taxxon into the free range lineup? The giant centipede-like alien's were probably the only creatures in the universe that could rival the hunger of a Galra on feeding day, and they wouldn't hesitate to eat anything they encountered. A smart Galra, with its claws, would have no problem with a Taxxon. It could make for an easy meal. Without a weapon, Shiro was at a severe disadvantage.

Ahead was a complex system of roots winding up in a haphazard latticework. If Shiro could lure the Taxxon into those, he might have a chance to evade it and knock it off-balance without having to fight on even ground. It would give him some advantage, at least.

He ran, as hard as he could. Scared humans were notoriously fast, but a hungry Taxxon was much faster. Shiro felt teeth rip into his hip, and he jerked away from the white-hot pain and tumbled to the ground just feet from the roots. The Taxxon was unable to stop as quickly, it's head down as it swallowed the scrap of Shiro's bloody tunic it had torn off, and it barrelled over Shiro and into the roots. They crack loudly under the Taxxons weight.

“SKREEEE! SKREEEE!” The Taxxon is screaming, though Shiro's not sure if it's even saying anything. He's been told that Taxxon are capable of language, but they all seem too stupid to him. They're far more concerned with eating whatever they can.

The Taxxon is impaled on the broken roots, and is oozing green-yellow blood. It looks like it was popped, and it's midsection is deflating as it bleeds out, and the smell is revolting. But it's a kill. Or at least, it will be once Malch arrives to enjoy it--

The Taxxon begins to eat itself.

Shiro steps back in shock. It's twisting to bite at the open wound in its side, ripping out large chunks and swallowing while it screams. Shiro hears footsteps behind him but can't bring himself to look away.

“Poor Taxxons,” Malch says over his shoulder, “can you imagine being that hungry?”

She says it pointedly, and Shiro gets the hint.

“It's all yours,” he gestures. The Taxxon has nearly eaten itself in half.

Malch sneers, “You think this will redeem you? This was no kill, this was an accident.”

She's right, and Shiro hopes she can't see the embarrassed flush creep up his neck. He should have known that this wouldn't be good enough for Malch. He pulls off his tunic-- it's beyond repair now and it's too warm for it-- and inspects his hip. He's bleeding, and he’ll need medical attention after this. It's going to bring him undesirable attention too, if he doesn't hurry and feed Malch so they can leave.

She notices his wound and reaches out. He stays still to let her assess the damage, or better, heal him to keep other Galra from hunting him. She digs her claws into the wound, making Shiro cry out, but he forces himself to stay still.

It's only a moment of agony before she pulls her bloody fingers away. Her drool hits the leaf litter in fat droplets.

“Be quick, Champion,” she licks his blood off of her fingers, “I'm hungry.”

 

* * *

 

The forest is disturbed by the occasional screams. They split the air and seem to sap out the heat of the day.

Shiro still hasn't made a kill.

He's been wandering in what feels like circles. It's so hard to keep track of where he is— everything looks the same in the enclosure. He hasn't hit any of the walls yet, which only emphasizes just how huge the enclosure is, but he's come across the remains of a successful hunt many times. They only serve to remind him how hungry he is, and how Malch isn't far behind him.

He's sweating in this heat, even stripped down as he is already. The air is hard to breathe, and he’s had to slow his pace down to keep from getting light-headed. Following this thought, Shiro has been trailing a running stream for some time, hoping that he’ll catch sight of footprints in the mud for some prey that is trying to escape the heat. The plants are a little thinner along the water, making travel easier too.

The wound on his side is still bleeding, and his constant movement isn’t giving it a chance to heal over. Shiro’s nose isn’t as delicate as a Galra’s, but he knows how tantalizing it must smell. Especially when human blood is such a delicacy.

He stops to drink, wincing as the mud squelches between his toes. This close to it, it smells foul and he'd rather wipe it clean than keep trekking it everywhere. On second thought, he realizes, it will probably prove useful to him. Shiro takes handfuls of cool mud and rubs it into the wound. While it’s not sanitary, he’s only going to be in the enclosure for a few more hours. He’ll be able to go see the healers to handle any damage, but for now he wants to mask his scent as much as possible. For good measure he rubs the mud across his face, his chest and shoulders, and as much as he can reach on his back.

He trails his fingers on the raised scar tissue running down his front. Malch has put so much effort into him: her time, her energy and even provided the resources to make him stronger. He can’t let it all go to waste. Shiro’s survived too much to die now.

He hears a crack to his right that might be a twig snapping. He goes still, listening. It’s not Malch— he can feel her following his trail and she’s taking her time. It could be prey, or it could be a Galra. He stays low, and moves towards the sound. There’s a slope down to the creek, and a slight crest at the top where high water has eroded the edge. The crest makes it impossible for Shiro to see what’s skulking around, but it means they haven’t seen him either. Shiro slides up beside a massive, moss-covered tree, using it’s exposed root system as a ladder of sorts. He places his feet carefully, in case he needs to make a quick escape and wants to avoid getting anything stuck.

At the crest of the incline he peers around the tree. There’s nothing to see. He holds his breath, and tries to expand his senses like Malch has been teaching him. Someone else is here. Maybe he can sense if it’s prey or Galra.

A body drops in front of him. The head is facing him, teeth chattering though the alien can no longer speak as its spine has been snapped in a bite to the back of its neck. Shiro ducks back as a Galra hand sets down right where he was about to step out. He presses himself into the root system, and tries to start sliding backwards.

The Galra huffs loudly, looking around. The slope of the incline is barely obscuring Shiro from its view. It’s covered in blood, and must have made a few kills by now. It bends to check that its twitching prey isn’t going anywhere, and then jumps down the slope. It slips in the mud, unsteady with a fat belly, and stumbles into the water to drink.

Shiro’s relieved he covered himself in mud. It makes it easier for him to blend in with the foliage. If he moves quickly, he can slip away before the Galra notices him. Shiro realizes that he knows the Galra— it’s Commander Eldek, a friend of Sendak’s. He and Shiro had spent time together training the youth combat groups.

Eldek’s not a member of the High Council, so it makes sense that he spends his Feeding Days in other places, but Shiro never expected to see a familiar face. Eldek looks particularly fat, and already a little slow in his movements. He’s eaten well and this prey is just overkill, which is why he hasn’t killed it yet.

Shiro remembers other members of the High Council trying to steal food from one another, how Sendak had once tried to take him from Malch. Stealing prey is common, and Eldek has already eaten well. Maybe he won’t put up much of a fight.

It’s insane, and he knows it. Shiro is a highly skilled and well-trained warrior, but one-on-one with most creatures, and he’s very out of his league. The environment here isn’t to his advantage except that he currently has the high ground compared to Eldek. He could try and creep away with the prey— it’s not like it can call for help— but that’s not the Galra way. If Shiro can take the prey from a Commander, then at least he’ll have something of worth to give to Malch.

Offhand, Shiro wonders that if his life is in danger, will Malch save him? Like she did in the arena? She’ll realize she doesn’t want to lose him.

More likely, if she were to save him, it would be because she wants to be the one to kill him.

Shiro needs to provide her a kill. He promised Malch that he would hunt for her. There’s no sense in holding back. He climbs out of the roots and faces Eldek’s kill. It’s three eyes are looking everywhere, trying to see where Eldek went since it can’t move its head to follow him. All three eyes lock onto Shiro’s face, and he’s sure he sees an expression of hope and relief that Shiro isn’t Galra.

Shiro’s attention is diverted when Eldek roars from below.

Shiro stands tall, baring his teeth and summons every bit of confidence he uses for the Arena fights. He remembers the feeling of being undefeated, of owning the terrain and making other prisoners afraid just from his presence. He wants Eldek to remember that Shiro is a fighter, and one of the best that the Galra have to offer. He wants Eldek to decide that this prey isn’t worth fighting over.

“Mine!” Eldek snaps, taking a step up the bank. His hackles are raised and his lips drawn back to reveal his plum-purple gums.

“No!” Shiro stomps his foot down to emphasize his point, “you’ve eaten. Move along.”

He wants to give Eldek the easy way out. There’s no shame in deciding the prey isn’t worth fighting over. Galra don’t often see it that way, though.

Eldek stomps closer, still wary at approaching from below but he’s making a show of trying to drive Shiro off, “That’s my kill!” he snarls.

Shiro glances down. The alien’s three eyes are looking to where it can hear Eldek’s voice, but it can’t see him from where it was left on the ground. It’s stomach has been opened from a sampling bite, and as Eldek was dragging it through the woods it’s intestines have been trailing out. The alien is nearly dead, or as good as. Eldek’s just been prolonging the death for fun.

The alien looks up at Shiro with one of its eyes, and he knows it’s pleading for help. It doesn’t know who Shiro is. It thinks that Shiro is a friend.

“It’s not dead yet,” Shiro challenges.

Shiro shifts his foot and steps on the aliens throat. It’s so weak that even as its body involuntarily convulses, it can’t buck him off.

Eldek is shocked by Shiro’s challenge and stops growling for a moment, ears coming forward as he realizes that Shiro isn’t backing down. Shiro pushes his weight onto the alien’s throat. It’s staring up at him as it’s pale green skin turns a sickening shade of yellow. It’s teeth click together, forming accusations or pleas that it will never voice. Shiro just hopes it dies now, that Eldek will back off when Shiro has made the kill official.

Eldek rushes the bank, teeth gleaming in the dappled sunlight. Shiro shifts his weight and kicks, catching Eldek in the muzzle just as he crests the top of the slope. It’s not enough to stop him, but it startles the Galra’s sensitive nose. Eldek stumbles to the side, momentarily stunned, as Shiro runs to put some distance between them. Eldek swipes out at him, catching Shiro around the middle with his wrist and hooking him in. Shiro can’t escape, and rather than let Eldek pull him into a crushing embrace in reach of his teeth, he brings his feet up and pushes out at the last second, using his heels to propel him backwards into Eldek, knocking the both of them off balance and tumbling down the slope into the creek.

Shiro spits water out of his mouth and scrambles to get up. The rocks are slippery under the water, and sharp on his feet. Eldek rolls onto all fours. Water pours out of his open jaws, and the stream around him is cloudy with blood as it washes off his fur. The water is up to Shiro’s knees, and will slow him down tremendously. It’s not as deep on the Galra. Shiro staggers as a rock slides under him, and Eldek charges. Shiro barely has enough time to get his hands on Eldek’s jaws to hold him off, before he’s knocked off his feet. Eldek drags Shiro through the stream, trying to pin him with his jaws so he can take a bite. Shiro gasps for air every time the Galra lifts his head, before he’s slammed underwater again.

Galra, Shiro has noticed, run into everything teeth-first, rather than use their hands. If Eldek only thought for a moment to use a hand to grab him, it would all be over.

In a rage, Eldek tosses his head to shake Shiro off, and Shiro uses the momentum to leap for the bank of the stream. He needs to get to high ground again— the stream isn’t good terrain for him. Shiro doesn’t wait to get his feet under him before he’s scrambling. The moss is slippery under his wet hands and he can’t get a good footing.

Eldek’s hand snaps a thick root beside Shiro’s head as the Galra pins him in.

Shiro doesn’t think about it— he’s learned to trust his instincts. He turns his head immediately and bites deep into the flesh of Eldek’s hand, just above the first knuckle on his finger. His implants slice cleanly through the muscle, and get lodged in the bone.

It’s been so long since Shiro bit anyone, let alone a Galra. He doesn’t even know if the bacteria in his mouth are still the same, if he can cause the same caustic infections, but it’s all he has left. He has to hope Eldek heard the horror story of what happened to the Galra that Shiro managed to bite before he had to wear the muzzle for so long.

Luck is on his side, and rather than bite Shiro’s head off, Eldek reflexively jerks away. He shakes his arm, and despite the wrench in his neck, Shiro holds on and clenches his teeth tighter. He doesn’t have the jaw strength to bite through Galra bone, but the movement aids his torque and suddenly Shiro’s been thrown down the bank, a chunk of Eldek’s hand and his finger dangling from Shiro’s teeth.

Eldek lets out a high-pitched, pained whimper. He runs for the stream and starts scrubbing at the wound. His ears are pressed tight against his skull, and he has his lips drawn back but in desperation, not anger.

Shiro spits out the finger, and stands up. It’s not a victory until Eldek submits the prey to him.

Eldek turns to growl at him, but it’s effect is lessened because he’s still whimpering in pain. Something catches the Galra’s eye behind Shiro, and his ears swivel forwards, and then go flat again in fear. He crouches into a near-bow, and then turns and runs down the stream, cradling his injured hand tight to his body.

Shiro turns slowly and looks up the bank. Standing at the top of the bank is Malch. Her white hair glows in the diffused light of the jungle, and for a moment Shiro is struck speechless at her presence.

She turns away, ducking back into the trees, and Shiro scrambles up after her. His body aches from being dragged along the riverbed, and being thrown around by Eldek. He joins Malch over the body of the prey Shiro stole from Eldek.

“It’s not a kill,” Malch comments.

“I stole it,” Shiro replies, as if she hadn’t seen him fighting Eldek. He wonders how long she watched for.

Malch huffs a laugh, “You said you would kill for me. I am losing my patience, Champion.”

Shiro licks his lips, “I said I’d feed you,” he agrees, “so, here is your food.”

She looks at him pointedly. It’s hardly enough to feed a young Galra, let alone an adult with the appetite of Malch.

“I’ll kill the next one,” Shiro promises.

“You promise me a great many things,” Malch agrees, “and so far all you have given me are scraps.”

She moves to kneel beside the dead alien, and starts eating. Shiro doesn’t stay to have a bite. He wants to be hungry, to keep himself alert. He can’t eat until Malch is full.

He doesn’t want to watch her eat and know that they’re both picturing what his bones would sound like as she tears him apart.

 

* * *

 

The day is getting late and Shiro is getting desperate. He can’t find any prey. He’s starting to fear that the other Galra have eaten all of them. He hasn’t even encountered any Galra—save for a few he found sleeping in the shade a while back—but he hasn’t seen any more that are hunting. The enclosure is so large it seems possible that they’re all scattered to different quadrants, but now Shiro begins to worry that he’s the only possible prey left. If—he can’t think like that— _when_ he gets out of here, he’s asking Malch to find him a tutor for hunting and tracking.

His fears are abated, thankfully, when he’s attacked. Again.

The [Arusian](https://65.media.tumblr.com/3762097cb07c7e77c1233762f18e6430/tumblr_o8wjh5N26w1r88hhro1_500.jpg) leaps out to attack Shiro, pointing a hastily-made spear up at him. It wavered when it realized that Shiro wasn’t a Galra.

Arusian’s are braver, or stupider, than the Galra give them credit for. In his teachings, Shiro knew they were a primitive warrior race, similar to humans. They are incapable of space flight and had no valuable resources on their planet, and as such, their planet was being left mostly undisturbed. Several of them had been taken for research purposes, and it appeared that this one no longer had any purpose to the scientists or druids.

“Are you alone?” it demands in Gelard, holding the spear at Shiro’s stomach. That was about as high as it could reach. Shiro had never envisioned a warrior race that was so… cute?

“Yes,” Shiro says slowly, taking in the unexpected scenario. He can feel Malch getting closer, and her focus runs through the bond like chills down his spine.

The Arusian thumps it’s chest proudly, “Come with me! We have to stick together before the Galra return. If we survive long enough, they will release all of us.”

 _Wrong_ , Shiro thinks to himself. While the spear could prove to be a challenge, Arusian’s have no other natural defences that would be an issue. They are a primarily herbivorous race with no real natural predators. Their skulls are thick, as to support their large horns, but otherwise their bodies are soft.

“All of us? Are you hiding with others?” Shiro asks, “where are—”

“You’re injured,” the Arusian interrupts, noting the wound at Shiro’s hip, and the blood around his mouth from Eldek’s attack, “you need help.”

“I was attacked,” Shiro agrees.

The Arusian lowers its spear, and holds out a hand, “Then come. I’ll protect you.”

Shiro hesitates a moment, and then takes the Arusian’s hand. It guided him back through the woods to where the others are waiting.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t very far, the burrow where the rest are hiding. They’d found a part of the bank that had eroded along the creek, where the water was deeper and ran a little faster than where Shiro had been earlier with Eldek. The entrance was at water level, and obscured by overhanging plants. It masked the footprints and scents of anyone who crawled in, and they’d been digging it out underneath to make space for the few that the Arusian had gathered together.

The Arusian easily slips inside, crawling over the lip of the bank and entering nearly upside down. Shiro isn’t as dexterous and has to wade into the creek to reach the burrow. He’s worried about the width of his shoulders, but after some prompting from the Arusian he drags himself through mud, nearly sliding on his stomach to get inside, and has to stay hunched over in the small space.

They are half a dozen in all. All traumatized and fearful and huddled together, trying to stay alive, in the cold, dark shelter. Shiro can’t see any exit points.

There’s enough for Malch to eat here, and more. The Arusian, a [Na](http://animorphs.wikia.com/wiki/Skrit_Na), a red alien that Shiro hadn’t yet encountered, and more.

“Another friend,” the Arusian announces.

“You’re hurt!” one of the aliens, small, red, and overall box-shaped, says.

“Taxxon,” Shiro says by way of explanation, “and then a Galra.”

They all gasp quietly and their faces grow dark with bad memories. No doubt they’ve seen friends and allies killed today. Shiro wonders if he looked like that on his first Feeding Day.

“Wait,” one of them says suddenly, “I know you— you’re Champion!”

Shiro braces himself. Would they consider him a threat? The small cave is a difficult spot for him to defend himself, but his back is to the entrance and he can hopefully get out that way. If he has to fight then he is confident in his ability to kill before they can hurt him badly.

The alien who spoke took on a very sad tone in its voice, “So they put you in here too, in the end.”

“Was all that violence worth it?” the Na snaps, “being the Galra’s pet right up until you weren’t good enough?”

“Hush,” a red one says soothingly, “you know what it’s like. We have to survive.”

“We don’t kill others for sport,” the Na grumbles.

“Well we’re all here now,” the red one insists, and then turns to Shiro, “did you know? That this is what they do to us?”

“I found out early,” Shiro admits, “what happens at the start of a new cycle.”

The Arusian shudders, “We didn’t know,” it admitted, “at first I thought we might be free— until I saw the walls. I was looking for a way out, and I found messages…” it’s mouth twists into a grimace, “messages from others, who were here before us. They carved them into the trees and scratched it into the walls. I tried to save more, but… the Galra are fast.”

They all nod sadly, obviously thinking back on the horrors they’d seen today. Shiro can’t believe there are this many prisoners still alive and gathered together in one place. He wonders how many survive Feeding Day in the enclosure, and what happens to them.

“Are we safe here?” Shiro asks.

“There’s nowhere else to go,” the Arusian admits, “I am looking for more hiding places, and a way out. Someone must have found it by now— but this cage is very large, and we have to wait for night.”

The hope in its voice is sweet. It is so naively brave in the face of death. Shiro likes that.

“Galra get sleepy, when they’re full,” Shiro confesses, “they sleep for days, but then they let the drones look after them. And it’s much easier to get past drones if you know their schedule.”

The red one nods, “That’s good, that’s very good information. If we can wait longer, they should all fall asleep.”

“Only because they’ll have killed and… and _eaten_ everyone else!” the Na looks like it might be sick.

“If there are others alive, they’re probably hiding. There must be other hiding places all over the enclosure,” Shiro says, “we’ll have to go look for them.”

“This place is our best defense,” the Arusian says, “we can’t leave.”

“Not with one entrance,” Shiro points out, “the instant a Galra knows you’re here, you’re all dead if you don’t have another way to escape.”

“Oh, do you have something better in mind? Because of all of us here, you’re the only one who’s been nearly eaten _twice_ ,” the Na snaps.

“And survived,” Shiro retorts, “so, if you want to live, you’re going to have to trust me. They trained me for combat, for survival. I know things.”

The group falls silent as they weigh Shiro’s words. He pretends to ignore them while they form a small circle and discuss in hushed whispers what they should do.

“Okay,” the Arusian declares, “you’re right. We need to find somewhere to run to, that we can defend and that we can also stay in. It’s too cramped here, and when we find others they won’t be able to fit.”

“I think I know a place,” Shiro lies easily, “I can show you. But we shouldn’t go as a group. That’ll draw too much attention.”

“Yes, good idea,” the Arusian agrees, “this is still a safe place to hide. We’ll scout it out, and if it’s safe then we’ll come back for you.” The group looks to it as a leader, trusting the Arusian’s courage with their lives. They can’t see that as a creature without natural predators, Arusians have lost the ability to _not_ trust.

It was all so easy. Shiro felt bewildered. He’d pictured making kills today, and the struggle and the thrill that would go along with it. That it would be rough, and a battle to the death like the arenas. Maybe that’s why the High Council preferred to have their prey chained— to prevent the stress of the hunt. And why some Galra preferred to eat this way, to test their strengths and hone their senses. It seems like so much work when the chains are so much easier.

 

* * *

 

Shiro lets the Arusian go first to scout the area. It had to know that its small spear was no match for a hungry Galra, but it still holds it like the weapon is something to be proud of.

They walk for several minutes into the woods. Shiro picks a direction and follows it, staying low to match the Arusian’s cautious advance. They don’t speak for a while.

“How much further?” The Arusian asks. It swivels the spear back and forth, obviously nervous about prowling Galra. Most of them are full and sleepy by now, Shiro knows, there's not much to be afraid of. Besides, Galra are the alpha predators in the enclosure. They won't bother hiding themselves.

Arusians are small, built stocky with thick limbs and thick skulls. Their horns can be difficult, but generations without fear of predation have made them all fat and slow. Shiro's been trained to kill for cycles now.

The Arusian handles the spear with the confidence of a trained warrior, but it leaves it’s back open to Shiro the whole time. It’s crouched low, peering through the undergrowth to see if there are lurking predators.

“Not long now,” Shiro says, and then, in a quick whisper as if he’s spotted something, “get down!”

The Arusian hits the dirt. Shiro can’t believe how easy this is. He’s wrestled others onto the ground, but this is the first time someone has opened themselves to attack so naively. Shiro quickly kneels on the Arusian’s back, pinning its head and shoulders down with his hands to keep it still.

“What are you— ” the Arusian is confused at first, and manages to turn its head enough to look up at Shiro. He can see the moment when the Arusian realizes the truth.

“They sent you,” it realizes. Shiro’s attention is elsewhere, he doesn’t respond and instead looks to his right.

Malch emerges from the trees.

“For you,” Shiro says, nodding down to the squirming alien beneath him, “and there are more. Enough for both of us.”

“Traitor!” the Arusian screams. It’s trying to be heard by the others, but Shiro’s led it too far away. The forest will swallow the sounds, “Champion is a traitor!”

Malch is watching with an unreadable expression, “You promised a kill,” she finally says.

“I didn't want to take it from you,” Shiro explains.

“A promise,” Malch repeats.

Shiro looks down, meets the Arusian’s gaze. It’s crying now, but its jaw is set determinedly. This is where he froze up at the last Feeding Day. He has the option of killing the Arusian any way he wants— snapping its neck would be painless and merciful, but he knows what Malch is waiting for.

Mercy, brutality, horror: these are all things that do not apply to Galra on Feeding Day. Feeding Day just Is, it exists as a part of life. They have no idea how horrific it is to other species.

For a moment Shiro debates letting the Arusian up. He wants to give it a chance to fight for its life, or to try and run. One last glimmer of hope, before the end. With its small limbs and limited combat knowledge it’s no match for him.

Kinder to get it over with, rather than draw it out. Either way, this is going to end the same.

Shiro bites into the soft skin on the back of the Arusian’s neck, and comes away with mostly fur. The Arusian is shouting— all sorts of insults mixed with cries for help and sobs of pain. It's still trying to call out to the others, and it’s crying out for home. It misses its family.

Shiro spits out the fur, and bites deeper. The blood tingles on his skin, somewhat acidic. He locks eyes with Malch. She's salivating, and he can't tell if she looks proud or not.

He swallows the next bite, and feels an overwhelming sense of pride. This is his prey. This is his kill. The Arusian bleeding out under him is here because of him, its life is in Shiro's hands, in his teeth. It's meat is so warm— it's been so long since Shiro ate something so fresh. Shiro forgets to go for the kill and starts eating in earnest. He can feel the bloodlust taking him, feel it awakening a part of him that is far more human than he'd like to admit. He’s making his kill; he’s feasting on those unlucky enough to not be him. Shiro is the predator, and he walked amongst the prey and they didn’t even suspect him.

Malch can't hold back any longer, and shoulders him aside to snap at the flailing Arusian. Together they tear it apart, though Malch takes the larger share. Shiro's happy to sit back as he chews and watch her eat. The blood is tacky and hot on his chin, his arms, his chest. Malch swallows the last of the scraps. He can’t stop smiling. He’s done it. He’s made his first Feeding Day kill. He can’t believe how hungry he is, still.

“There's more,” Shiro reminds her, “I found where a lot of them are hiding. They let me in.”

Malch’s grin is all teeth, “They thought you were one of them?”

The relief of making a kill, of making her happy, is infectious. Shiro can't help but pick up on her teasing tone, “They didn't look at my teeth,” he jokes, and laughs.

Malch laughs at that, too, and follows Shiro as he leads her away.

 

* * *

 

It’s the first time, since his loss, that Shiro has felt like their silence has been _easy_. This is what he missed. The two of them together, enjoying each others’ presence. He pulls them up short, a ways downstream, and describes the layout of the burrow and the rest of the aliens inside.

“I'll lure them out,” Shiro offers. Stepping into the water should wash the blood off of him too, and if he says the Arusian is waiting for them, the others should come along without hesitation.

Malch shakes her head, “You make me a promise. You will kill for me today.”

He feels a thrum of magic around her— she's so strong, she's stronger than anyone knows and Shiro sometimes feels like he can drown in the potential of her strength— and right before his eyes she changes and becomes the Arusian. He can’t believe a Galra can become something that looks so harmless. He wants to know this magic. It excites him that he’s learning from her. She’s going to share all of these secrets with him.

Shiro wonders if she wants to walk amongst the prey like he did. To trick them into trusting her. It makes him think that she’s proud of him for that, and he can’t stop smiling.

Malch winks up at him, and it's her cruel smile that spreads across the Arusian’s face. Shiro would know her anywhere.

“I’ll fetch them,” she instructs, and runs on her short legs to the burrow.

Shiro is too curious to stay far away. It’s not like they have to worry too much— like he pointed out earlier, the prey are just waiting to be eaten because they don’t have another exit. It’s a fun game, to lure them out, but he wants to hear how Malch will do it.

“Come out, come out! It's safe here now,” she calls into the cave. Her Arusian voice is honey-sweet, and Shiro wonders if the aliens inside can see the trap being laid out for them, and if their blind trust in the Arusian’s confidence and optimism is what drives them to ignore the danger.

One by one the prey crawl out of the burrow.

Shiro kills them all.

 

* * *

 

He survives the day.

It’s a huge victory, but it’s not enough. He and Malch are some of the last to stumble out of the enclosure, both fat and dozy after their meals. Shiro wanted to sleep in the forest, basking in the heat and cradled by the soft moss, but Malch wants to sleep in her bed. It’s undignified for a Galra of her status to just fall asleep where she eats, and the heat makes her miserable.

She doesn’t invite him to sleep with her, and when she crawls into her bed, Shiro resigns himself to his cage.

The cage is so empty and small. He has a blanket, but he’s so cold without Malch beside him. After spending the day in the thick heat of the enclosure, the frigid temperatures of the Galra interiors feel like an ice bath. Malch is snoring, completely asleep, and Shiro can’t get comfortable.

He crawls out of his cage carefully, waiting to see if she’s awake. She’ll probably punish him if she catches him but… maybe… maybe if he’s careful…

The edge of the bed dips slightly as he leans onto it. He pauses, to see if he’s disturbed her. Her breathing doesn’t change. He gets his other leg onto the bed, slowly, and pauses.

He originally intended to just sleep here, at the end of her bed. He just wanted to be close to her, but now that he’s here it still feels too far away. He’s emboldened by his progress and crawls forwards.

There’s enough space between her and the edge of the mattress that he can lie down beside her, but not touch her. He’s afraid he’s pushing too much. She’ll wake up and throw him from the bed, but Shiro knows he won’t be able to sleep without her beside him. He can feel the warmth of her even from this distance, and slides a little closer.

He hears the skip in her breathing as she sniffs awake, though she doesn’t open her eyes. His heart hammers in his chest. Neither of them cleaned up before going to bed, and so Shiro’s still covered in blood and scratches from where the prey tried to fight back. It’s even in his hair.

“Malch,” he says tentatively, trying to think of how to explain himself, and braces for a scolding. She’s quiet for a moment, deciding in how she should punish him.

She huffs a sigh and rolls over, pulling him close so that the wet blood on her front smears across his chest. It’s a strange sensation- Feeding Day is the only day she goes to bed so dirty like this- and it’s almost cold compared to the heat of her fur. Shiro can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. A bubble of joy pops in his chest and he wants to laugh. She isn’t casting him out. She wants him to stay.

She lazily licks the blood from his face, “You made me very proud today,” she says between swipes. Her teeth are long and shine bright in the darkness. They’re inches from Shiro’s face and he cranes his neck to give her access to his throat. He’s a messy eater. There’s blood everywhere.

“Don’t send me away,” he asks, “please. Keep me. I’m yours.”

The hum of approval rumbles in her chest, and he can feel it while he’s pressed this close to her.

“Yes, mine,” she says fondly, “my Champion.”

His name is a soothing balm to his anxious mind. She’s given him back his identity. Shiro’s wrapped in his blanket, and tucks his head under Malch’s chin to snuggle closer. She smells like carnage from the kills, and like lightning from her magic today. She falls back asleep quickly, breathes evening out with her arms holding him against her. Shiro tangles his fingers in her fur and finally, finally relaxes as he lets relief and happiness wash over him.

He’s never felt safer than in this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the episodes with the Arusians _now_!!!! Mwahahaha!
> 
> For the hell of it, here's a [drawing showing how I've been envisioning the Galra for this fic ](http://demenior.tumblr.com/post/150524613669/its-the-galra-squad-shiro-w-his-little) if you're interested in that sort of thing (:
> 
> **If you're interested in more of this series, then check out [Blackout](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8332594). It's a one-shot story that follows immediately after the events of this chapter, and notes a very interesting and unexpected change in Haggar and Shiro's relationship.
> 
> We'll see y'all on the next Feeding Day!


	4. Feeding Day the 4th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you to everyone who's left a review! They thrill my heart and make this fic worth writing, honestly! I'm so happy y'all are enjoying the ride through Shiro's Fun Year with me
> 
> **BIG NEWS! The last chapter is going to be on a short hiatus, as I am backpacking through central america for a month, and I leave in a week! I'm sorry I wasn't able to get the whole story finished before I left, but hey, it'll be a great surprise for when I get back!
> 
> **Get ready for some Galra politics!! And to scream 'SHIRO NO!!!' because that's how I write these chapters. It's about the only way to handle them.
> 
> **There's quite a bit of gaslighting in this chapter, so fair warning if that makes you uncomfortable. I mean, if you've read this far into the story I'm assuming you're okay with that sort of thing, but just want to make sure
> 
> **For anyone interested, here's a [ general design of how I picture the Galra in my head ](http://demenior.tumblr.com/post/151300810674/i-think-im-finally-happy-w-my-galra-redesign)
> 
> **Shiro has been in captivity ~9 months now

The roar of the crowd is electric, and Champion’s blood sings under his skin. He feels like he could run for miles, or conquer the world. He loves the excitement of the Arena. Besides, today couldn’t be better because Cassak has gone to celebrate Feeding Day off-planet like Champion and Malch did last cycle. It means she won’t return for several days, and Champion can be free of her annoying presence and her desire to take all of Malch’s affections from him. He hopes she gets eaten so that she never comes back.

Malch doesn’t understand the animosity between her two students and thinks Champion should be more mature in the matter. Champion consoles himself that he’s the one who lives with Malch, not Cassak. Malch likes _him_ the most.

Malch catches that thought and snorts.

Malch often finds it aggravatingly loud in the Arena, though Champion loves the energy of the crowd. But even she has to admit that the fights are always interesting. She’s a scientist at heart, and she loves watching creatures pushed to their limits, and to see who has the strongest will to survive.

Champion isn’t as clever as she is. He likes picking apart fighting styles, and deconstructing warriors’ techniques and skills. He takes advantage of the opportunity to analyze his future opponents too.

He’s never going to lose again.

“I am the strongest! Send me your warriors!” the victor screams in the ring.

From their balcony, Champion can’t help but smile at the show. The crowd is cheering, turning into a frenzy at the smell of blood. This wasn’t meant to be a death match, as those are usually halted this close to Feeding Day to make sure the festivities don’t start too early, but this alien is particularly bloodthirsty.

“He won't last another fight,” Champion comments.

Sendak swallows a large mouthful of blood from his goblet, nearly upending it. Since the Emperor hasn't shown up yet, and Malch doesn't like the drink, Sendak has had the blood all to himself. It's made him a little careless with his words.

“Ha!” Sendak laughs, “This warrior could go all night in the Arena! Look at it- it came to kill, and no one else is willing to kill it to survive! I want to eat it tomorrow.”

Champion's been nursing his own goblet. Thankfully the Galra invented a way to keep the blood warm in the cup, to keep it from coagulating and souring, and it's kept Champion's hands from going stiff with cold and gives him a little warmth with every sip. He misses sweet drinks from earth, but has yet to encounter anything like sugar.

He decides to provoke Sendak, if only because the Arena makes him feel confident. And because he wants to wipe that smug grin from Sendak’s face. Sendak acts like Champion has redeemed himself after his loss last cycle, but Champion's not so quick to forgive and forget the vile rant Sendak gave him while he was recovering in medical.

“Want to bet on—” he stops when the curtains behind them ruffle, but it's merely someone moving by, and not the Emperor joining them.

Malch had sat up attentively, and now her gaze moves to where the Emperor’s seat remains empty.

They’re two fights in and the Emperor hasn’t shown up. He rarely misses an arena fight.

“He’s with that dammed Surkar again,” Sendak grumbles, surprisingly chatty. It’s likely that the blood has lowered his inhibitions. For all that the Galra have advanced technology and weaponry and magic, they’ve yet to encounter anything like the blood. Most Galra have no head for the way it intoxicates them, and it reminds Champion of when he was a teen and stole some of his parents’ booze to impress his friends. They’d all gotten wretchedly drunk because they hadn’t known their limits. The Galra are like that, and they keep drinking without thinking of the consequences.

“He must be,” Malch agrees, glancing over her shoulder as if the Emperor might stride in to join them right then.

“This is the third fight he’s missed,” Sendak sighs, “this is becoming a problem.”

Malch only enjoys the Arena for the ability to test her projects. The loudness, the energy and the celebrity of it all irritate her. But it’s also where she’s guaranteed audience with the Emperor for an extended time and knows that he will be in good spirits to hear her plans. By watching closely, Champion has come to know that both Malch and Sendak use the time at the Arena’s to play on the Emperor’s good mood to push the agendas they need forwards. It’s a delicate act, gaining his approval without making him feel like he’s working, but they push and pull in tandem and by working together often get more done than if they were bothering the Emperor alone.

The Emperor only comes to appreciate the fights. He’s quite a fan of Champion’s. That makes Malch very proud and so Champion doesn’t mind warming up to the Emperor to gain Malch some favors. It’s not hard to get along with the Emperor, surprisingly. All it takes is a few brags about matches, and the Emperor lights up with the chance to talk about how exciting it was to watch a match, to which he will then usually trail off into a related story involving his own escapades. Champion’s heard most of them several times now, though the Emperor doesn’t seem to notice he’s repeated himself, but he just nods along and it makes the Emperor more likely to say yes to whatever Malch asks.

But lately the Emperor has been spending his down time with another Galra named Surkar— overall, not very important. He cleaned the Emperor’s bedding and kept his chambers in order. They apparently shared an interest over an old book and now they spend time together every night in the Emperor’s private chambers. Rumor has it that Surkar has often spent the night as well.

That wouldn’t be too much of an issue, except that suddenly the Emperor is far more interested in diverting efforts and funds towards the arts and supporting poor citizens— things the Surkar finds important— than he is towards the things that matter, like the troops or investing in weapons or armor. Surkar has the Emperor’s ear, and with him occupying the Emperor’s time as well, there’s no way for Malch and Sendak to keep their operations running smoothly. Champion had to endure a night of Malch ranting after the Emperor went through with a plan to create a trade agreement with a solar system that they should have conquered to avoid tariffs. And that he’d done so without consulting her once.

Surkar was the Emperor’s _friend_. He was not an advisor, was young, had barely any experience on the battlefield, and overall had very little status amongst the Galra. He was a maid, essentially, with a bleeding heart and now the Emperor was listening to him.

“Unfortunate that Surkar can’t find himself on the front lines,” Malch comments.

“Sadly, the Emperor has personally requested Surkar to be promoted to his personal guard,” Sendak sighs, “so it’s impossible to reassign him.”

“Why didn’t you act sooner?” Malch snaps. She’s not in a good mood. Champion _was_ in a good mood— he loves the Arena, it’s his domain— but her irritation flows through their bond and sours the good time he was having.

“Like you, I assumed Surkar was a passing fancy,” Sendak growls, “but in a shocking turn of events, it appears we were both wrong about the Emperor’s fondness for him.”

They’re purposely not looking at each other. On the Eve of Feeding Day, if they were to start fighting, it would likely mean they would end up trying to eat one another. Champion doesn’t think it will come to that, but he’s more than prepared to kill Sendak if he tries to hurt Malch. Not that she needs the help. He’ll never forget the time she tore off Sendak’s arm to protect him. In fact, he realizes, it was four cycles ago, as of tomorrow.

With the surprise he has planned, he and Malch can celebrate that anniversary as well. She’ll like that praise of her power and mercy.

The alien in the arena is demanding more warriors be sent in for it to fight. It wants to kill, to prove its bloodlust. Champion wonders if it knows about Feeding Day, and is hoping to escape. It’s trying to replicate him, the one who was taken out of the Arena and now sits with the Emperor. There have always been legends amongst the prisoners, rumors that if you kill enough, if you’re _good_ enough, the Galra will enlist you and take you out of the Arenas. Champion knows that’s just a fool’s hope now. No one could ever kill enough to become a Galra.

Malch bares her teeth, in frustration rather than at anyone, “We must be rid of Surkar,” she growls.

“I’m sure you can find a way,” Sendak says, “disappearing people seems to be your specialty.”

“Pardon?” Malch snaps.

Sendak draws back his lips, hackles standing up now. He _is_ drunk, Champion realizes, and is speaking very freely. With what he’s seen of Galra politics so far, and considering the length of her position at Zarkon’s side, Champion has no doubts that Malch has been involved in the defamation, deposition or outright disappearance of the former Head Commanders. Sendak nearly accusing her of this is tantamount to treason. Malch could have him killed for insulting her like that— were the Emperor present.

Champion can feel Malch beginning to growl, and the sensation of it vibrating through where he’s close to her for warmth. They’re going to fight. They’re both frustrated about their loss of control on the Emperor, and they’re hungry. This isn’t going to end well. How embarrassing for the Hands of the Emperor, the highest of the High Council, to break their fast before the Emperor. Champion has to do something.

He stands up quickly, drawing the attention of both angry, hungry Galra.

“Do you want to make a bet?” he asks Sendak.

Sendak is surprised out of his snarl and blinks his one eye lazily, “A bet? About what?”

“You said the gladiator could survive more battles tonight, I said it wouldn’t survive one more. Do you want to bet on it?” Champion says.

Malch’s ears twitch and Champion can imagine her face as she struggles to stay neutral. He’s sure she knows what he’s doing, and is probably realizing that things are about to get worse for Sendak.

“What’s the wager?” Sendak asks. His ears are forwards, fully focused on Champion.

It might be wrong to be taking advantage of the Commander when he’s so intoxicated, but Champion can’t resist the opportunity to humiliate him.

“Your arm,” he says slowly, and holds up his hand to show off the glint of metal on his own, “against my ring.”

Apparel means status to the Galra, and status is everything. A Galra without an arm is useless, is practically prey, just as Champion is nothing without his Arena Ring. There’s only one ring like this in the universe, and Champion made sure that the alien who took it from him suffered for it.

It’s an offer that Sendak can’t resist, of course.

His grin curls all the way across his large mouth, and his eye clicks as it focuses on Champion.

“Deal,” he says.

“I am going to take my leave,” Malch says diplomatically, though Champion can see the way a grin is tugging at the edge of her mouth.

“This won’t take long,” Champion assures her. Plus, he wants her to be there when he humiliates Sendak.

“You’re insufferable,” she chides him, but she settles back down all the same.

Sendak upends his goblet, drinking the rest of it in one go, before gesturing for a refill. Champion steps forwards and holds out his hand. Sendak grips him tightly with his prosthetic, dwarfing Champion’s palm in his own. They shake once, firmly, and making eye contact. Sendak squeezed his fingers enough to pop his joints, but Champion didn’t give him the satisfaction of wincing.

“Now lets see what the Arena holds,” Sendak chuckles, leaning back in his seat with his newly filled goblet.

Champion drops his robes so they pool around his ankles. The shock of cold air wakes him up, and gets his blood pumping.

“What are you doing?” Sendak asks immediately.

A small transport drone— small and sturdy enough for a Galra to stand on to be quickly brought to the lower level— arrives at the booth. Malch must have called for it.

“I’m fighting,” Champion says, as if it weren’t obvious, “I don’t leave my bets up to fate.”

“You?” Sendak hisses, and then realizes he’s been played. He hurls his wine to the floor in frustration, “You aren’t unbeatable! You’ll lose again you furless, fangless—”

Champion ignores the rest of Sendak’s insults because he’s laughing, and he can hear Malch laughing too. He hops onto the transport drone and waves a cheeky salute to Sendak as it descends.

If he thought the crowd was loud before, they become an overwhelming scream as he’s brought to the Arena.

“You want another fight?” he shouts to the gladiator, to the delight of the crowds. The alien in the arena looks like it’s steeling itself for a fight. Good. Champion hates it when they give up before the fight even begins.

Champion hasn’t eaten in well over a week, and the ring is saturated with fresh blood and gore. It makes his mouth water and he feels like his hunger could rival a Galra at this point.

The alien left standing in the arena is fairly unscathed. It has multiple eyes, most of which are on stalks that can move independently of one another. This gives it a full range of sight, and makes it very difficult to blindside. It also means that it relies almost entirely on its vision, and once Champion cuts its eyes out, the battle won’t be much fun at all.

Sendak was wrong. Champion isn’t fangless. He just waits for the right moment to strike.

He is Malch’s protégé after all.  


* * *

  
“Insolent,” Malch says as they walk home.

Champion tries to pretend he’s chastised by her words, but he can’t wipe the smile off of his face. She glances down at him, pulling Sendak’s hilariously proportioned prosthetic arm on a cart behind him, and starts laughing too. The atmosphere of the eve is infectious— it’s light and fun, and full of excitement for tomorrow’s celebrations.

Champion decided to put on his robes to meander home, though he’s still covered in blood underneath from the fight. He could have made it a clean kill, but he decided to try practicing with his magic in combat and got a little carried away. He salvaged some eyes since he knows Malch will be happy about the gift. Several Galra stop to sniff after them, following the blood trail, but Champion doesn’t pay them much mind.

He has half a mind to let Malch lick the blood off of him when they get home, to wet her appetite for tomorrow, but he’s played with her enough for tonight. He stepped in and defended her when she didn’t necessarily require it, and so openly flirting like that might ruin the festive mood if she feels insulted.

When they get home he sets Sendak’s arm under the shelves where Malch keeps her mementos and trophies— Champion plans on finding a useless purpose for the arm, just to aggravate Sendak further— and then immediately heads for the shower. He takes a small jar with him for the eyes. Malch politely pretends not to notice, but Champion’s hoping she’ll assume this is the only gift he’s gotten for her this cycle. He has much better things planned for tomorrow night, and the eyes should keep her curiosity at bay until then.

When he comes out of the shower the lights are dimmed as if for sleep. Unless she's angry with him she wouldn't have gone to bed without him, and as far as Champion understands she’s only playing at being mad at him. He glances around their home and he realizes she isn't here. Her robes are gone too. Rather than dress for sleep he reaches out to find her.

She's as familiar as a caress, though she's more like a wildfire in her immense power. Champion doesn't pry, but nudges her attention so that she knows he's looking for her.

Malch grabs onto him almost immediately, and there are undercurrents of unusual emotions in her aura. She needs him to come to her, and to bring some things that they have in their living space. As she rattles off the list, Champion gets worried about forgetting something.

In response he feels his limbs go numb and his head gets light as she steps into his body. It's quite easy, since all Champion has to do is submit to her. Malch already knew how to do everything else.

It's a surreal sensation to watch and feel his body moving without him willing it to do so. Malch quickly gathers the herbs she needs and some stones to help focus her energies. Even though Champion can't hear her thoughts, he knows that she is feeling the loss of her rune bones. The rebel attack at the beginning of the cycle did so much damage. Champion wished he had made them suffer more for what they did to Malch.

Once she's done collecting her list, she leaves final instructions for Champion to hurry, and then returns control of his body to him. Champion grabs his own robes from the wall, and carries what he can. Everything else he weaves a quick spell to have it float along after him, as if on a tether.

He doesn't run, exactly, but he moves quickly. Malch has trained him well in etiquette and he has to remember that wherever he goes he is representing her. While he can be loud and arrogant in the Arena, that's for the Arena only. Druids are meant to be quiet, and as a member of the High Council through Malch, he also represents the best of Galra society.

The halls are still loud, and though the lights are dimmed to indicate it's the night cycle, many Galra fill the corridors. They're all thin and scrawny compared to their early cycle bulk, but full of smiles for the coming feast. Everyone steps out of Champion’s way, and gives him a polite nod or an excited cheer for their favorite Arena celebrity.

Champion feels ahead, stretching his aura to sense the mechanics of the gates ahead, and twists them to open before he even arrives. While he and Malch live in a relatively private wing, the Emperor is the only one who lives behind air locks and gates of protection. Champion can't help but smile to himself as he manages every single combination just right and the gates open one by one as he arrives to them.

There are rows of drones on guard in the hall leading to the Emperor's chambers. Any Galra would have been relieved tonight by their robot counterparts, due to the proximity to Feeding Day. There is a Galra with them— shaking and nervous, and without any clothing on.

Champion hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting him one on one, but he knows it’s Surkar the moment he lays eyes on him. Surkar is handsome enough, with slim ears that make him look older than he is, and fur the color of a bruise. He’s end of the cycle thin, and is refusing to budge from his place beside the door even though the drones won’t let him in.

“I’m on his guard! I’m… Zarkon needs me!” Surkar is begging. Something is wrong with the Emperor, no wonder Malch had seemed so stressed when she’d contacted him.

“Champion!” Surkar says when he spots him, and the Galra bounds over to him, “are you here to help? Please, bring me in with you. I’ll do whatever I can to help! I called for _Haggar_ but then she threw me out. I’m so worried!”

Champion had considered a nice way to tell Surkar he wasn’t wanted, but then he went and insulted Malch. And so flippantly too, for someone with no status like Surkar. He wasn’t even wearing his armor!

_Haggar_ meant crone. It was an old Galran term. Champion had heard it tossed around in reference to Malch before, and he could see the association. She was old, ancient in terms of a regular Galra lifespan. No one had been stupid enough to call her _Haggar_ to Champion’s face, though.

For a moment he considered ripping Surkar’s tongue out. It would be so much harder to talk the Emperor into stupid ideas or insult Malch if he couldn’t talk at all.

Instead, Champion is distracted when the drones search him for weapons or any other threats to the Emperor. Rather than cause a scene— Malch asked him to hurry, she needs him, and he won’t let her down— Champion coldly ignores Surkar and his pleading and enters the Emperor’s lair alone.

Champion has never been in the Emperor’s private chambers before, and the first thing that surprises him is how _huge_ everything is. It makes sense, given the Emperors impressive size, but it's still shocking. It makes him feel like he's just stepped into Wonderland. The second thing Champion notices is the large bed, where the Emperor is reclined to a half-seated position, and Malch is casting spells over him. He makes his way over with the herbs and spell things he's brought with him.

The Emperor is wheezing, his breaths are slow and shallow, and they rattle loudly in his lungs. His leathery skin is pallid, and his eyes seem milky and distant. He's sick.

Malch doesn't greet Champion but takes the bags from him and begins weaving new spells. She uses the herbs to focus her magic into different healing properties, and a quick aside to Champion instructs him to start brewing teas.

The next thing Champion notices, once he has a moment to think while the teas are brewing, is the overwhelming smell of rot. He knows it from the prisons, and the arena. Alien's that had been injured, but weren't interesting enough to garner medical aid from sponsors, whose wounds grew infected and eventually poisoned them. That's what the Emperor smells like. Like the dead fox Champion once found on the side of the road. It makes Champion gag and he steels himself to get over it. When had the Emperor been wounded? Was there a coup Champion didn't know about? Another rebel attack? How could anything have hurt the Emperor on his own central ship? How had any wound gone untreated long enough?

Malch keeps him busy mixing teas and making salves. She doesn't offer any explanation, and the Emperor continues to struggle to breathe and he coughs and coughs and cries out in agony. His eyes go from being screwed tight with pain, to open and distant, as if he’s unaware of anything around him.

Malch is so focused that Champion doesn't even dare reach out to tap into her, to find out what's going on. She's weaving spells so complicated that they make Champion's head spin as he tries to focus on them.

He recognizes patterns after some time— when she's switched between what she's casting. He can't believe she isn't exhausted yet, but she's panting with exertion and he knows she can't keep this up forever.

She's currently focusing on pain management. Zarkon is breathing a little easier— his breaths are regular at least. The amount of magic Malch poured into the Emperor could heal at least seven soldiers. Champion can't imagine what kind of injuries the Emperor has that are still tormenting him.

It reminds him of the dog he’d had when he was young. She'd been his faithful companion, getting older with him, and her white face was a constant in his home. But it has gotten harder and harder for her to get up and walk around, until the end when she was in so much pain that she could barely stand or eat anything. He remembers bawling, as his parents tried to explain that it was better for her. She wouldn't be in pain anymore. He hadn’t been able to understand then, but with the wisdom of experience now he could. It was an act of love, to kill her.

He remembers standing around his grandfather's’ hospice bed and being horrified at how weak his grandfather looked, just like the Emperor now. His grandfather had wasted away, in pain and with no appetite. He wasn’t the man Champion knew him as. Champion had asked when they would put grandfather to sleep, and his parents had explained that it's different for people and animals.

With the benefits of experience, Champion’s not sure there really is a difference. It feels like it was cruel, to watch a great man waste away but to give the animal the dignity of a graceful death.

“There,” Malch sighs heavily, speaking for the first time in what feels like ages. She lets her arms drop to her sides as she relaxes.

Champion has tea for her— her favorite— and brings a cup to her. She motions for him to follow and they make themselves comfortable on a bench just far enough from the bed that they can let the Emperor rest, but still keep an eye on him. Malch accepts the tea thankfully and doesn't speak for a while.

Champion glances back at the Emperor, sleeping away in his bed. He watches the rise and fall of his chest, and wonders if each one will be his last.

“What's wrong with him?” Champion finally asks.

“Sick,” Malch says, “Surkar summoned for me while you were cleaning yourself.”

“Surkar is crying at the door,” Champion informs her, and her ears flatten in irritation, so he tries to change subjects quickly, “Is he, the Emperor… what kind of sickness is it?” Champion continues. He thinks over the herbs and salves and teas he made tonight. They're for a variety of symptoms— but they all point to things being terribly wrong. Malch sips her tea instead of answering. He sees the relief in her face when she realizes he’s brewed it exactly as she likes it.

“Why is he not in a cryopod?” Champion presses. Something doesn't make sense to him. Which Malch can heal most, if not all, injuries— the cryopods exist for a reason. Champion’s spent more than enough time in them.

“It's not an illness that science can cure,” Malch admits, “I am the only one who can help him now.”

“And you can do that?” Champion can't believe how powerful she is, sometimes. She defies nature as if the natural laws of the universe should bend to her will. They often do.

He's felt it, her immense strength, firsthand, and sometimes through him when she uses him as a familiar. He feels like she could move the heavens and earth if she so chose.

“Yes. But this must remain very discreet. You didn't disclose where you were going to anyone, did you?” Malch asks, “no one can know the Emperor is sick. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Champion answers quickly, “and I said nothing to no one.”

The common Galra believe their god is eternal, and that so long as he lives so shall the Empire. And he’s existed so long that it might be true. Champion’s seen it— how his power is so intrinsically tied to the fear and rumors surrounding him for his longevity and stature. Whispers and secrets that Malch has been carefully fostering. If news were to break that he was just as frail as any mortal, it could be disastrous for the Empire.

“I'm going to meditate for a bit, to rest, before the next round,” Malch says, “wake me if anything changes.”

The tone in her voice implies that it's going to be a long night. So much for their evening plans.

Champion lets her have the bench to lay down on, and tasks himself with cleaning up as much as he can. The Emperor groans and whimpers in pain with every second breath, and the air tastes tangy— like ozone— from the amount of magic Malch has been working.

Looking down at the Emperor, wheezing for breath like every one might be his last, Champion has dark thoughts. He sizes up everyone he meets— it’s training, it’s habit. He needs to catalogue every weakness and strength and every advantage he can use. In this moment, Champion realizes something very frightening.

He is stronger than the Emperor. In fact, he’s sure he could kill the Emperor.

Would it be better to put him out of his misery?

No, Champion reasons quickly. And it’s not for the Emperor’s sake, but for Malch’s. To kill the Emperor now would be an impulse, a poorly concocted plan that would lead to both of their deaths. If Champion were to kill the Emperor he would have to make sure it were untraceable, and that Malch would be protected in the aftermath.

He wants to laugh. This close to the new cycle and he suddenly has thoughts about killing the Emperor? Of course it’s just his bloodlust rising. Champion is starving, and he can’t wait for the banquet tomorrow. He just wants to sink his teeth into something, that’s where these thoughts have come from. Killing the Emperor would do no good for anyone. Except maybe the rebels.

If there’s anyone Champion wants to sink his teeth into it’s the rebel leaders. They ordered the attack on Malch at the beginning of the cycle, and they have yet to suffer Champion’s wrath for it. He wishes he’d kept any of the would-be kidnappers alive so he could have made them talk. He still dreams about hunting down their base and killing all of them. Or taking them all captive, for Feeding Day. What a gift that would be, to hand over the ones who tried to have Malch killed and then have them be the food that keeps her alive for another cycle.

Malch’s aura reaches out to soothe him, and he realizes he’s been projecting. Champion bows his head bashfully, but tangles his aura with hers. He lets her feel his swells of pride at the memories of tearing the rebels apart, and she responds with her pride in his loyalty to her. She hasn’t even opened her eyes from her place on the bench, but it feels like they’re having a private conversation without any words.

He can feel her fatigue, and he can feel her resolve and the stores of energy she can still draw on. Regardless, Champion offers her his energy and his support. She’s always pleased when he offers anything, and her praise has him smiling as he finishes tidying up. He leaves himself open to her, letting her emotions and thoughts run through him, and the same from him to her. He’s sure she filters most of him out, but he likes the hum of her mind in his. It’s an intimacy he can’t compare to anything back on Earth.

Malch’s busy mind drifts off as she slips into a light sleep, and Champion tries to keep his own thoughts quiet. He pays attention to the Emperor’s breathing, ready to wake Malch at any sign of danger.

It’s still strange to him that the Emperor could be so sick that he’s beyond the help of medicine. Has he been cursed? That’s often the only time when magic will trump medicine, as medicine can’t cure anything magically inflicted.

Champion makes his way to the Emperor’s bed to investigate. The Emperor is so large, even in his sleep, that it feels like Champion is a mouse approaching a lion. Malch has explained to him that Galra do not stop growing as they age, which accounts for the Emperor’s vast size.

When Champion asked why Malch was not a giant either, she snapped at him for being sassy.

The Emperor looks old. Even though he is ancient, there has always been strength in his movements and clarity in his eyes. Lying on his bed, taking shallow, whistling breaths, Champion can’t believe how frail he looks. His face is a patchwork of scars, similar to Champion’s own, and while Champion doesn’t have any facial hair by choice, the Emperor’s fur has all fallen out in patches on his face. He’s lost a lot of fur, enough that he almost looks like he has mange. His skin is dark and leathery underneath, save for the bright spots of scar tissue. Even his teeth are worn down, and yellowed with age. Some of them look like they have cavities, and some are chipped.

Champion can’t stay close to him for long. The smell of death is so strong that it makes him feel physically ill. He’s not sure how Malch can stand it.

It worries him, though, that the smell is so overwhelming and obviously coming from the Emperor. What on earth could be rotting him like that?

Champion thinks back to his dog, and to his grandfather. Neither of them had smelled of death like this. But, when Champion tries hard enough, he can remember another man in the hospice whose body was failing even though he refused to die.

He’s flooded suddenly by memories— not his own— of the Emperor throughout the years. Young, impossibly young, dressed in armor with black accents, and then years later when he’s begun to show the signs of aging. When his gums started to rot and Malch tended to him, when his organs started failing and Malch tended to him. When his bones and joints ached from his large size, a size no Galra had ever been before, and Malch tended to him. They’re all Malch’s memories, passed along to him through their connection by her sleepy mind.

The pieces click together and paint a terrible picture.

The Emperor is dying from old age.

Besides Malch, he is the longest-lived Galra in the known Universe. Champion hadn't questioned his age before— the Emperor just Was. He was the Empire, he was the strength and cunning that brought the Universe together. Champion hasn't even questioned Malch’s age— how she survived so long, even though it’s beyond the natural lifespan of the Galra. With her knowledge of things that no one had ever heard of, and her immense scope of magical power, it seemed like such a simple thing to believe that they'd lived for more than ten thousand years. Champion had never questioned _how_.

The smell of rot— of the Emperors body failing— is so strong that Champion can't stay close for very long. The Emperors breathing is the loudest noise in the room, so it's easy to track from a distance. As he may never have the opportunity again, Champion starts to wander the room. Malch’s spell ingredients and books have always captivated his attention. He can't imagine what the lord of the universe keeps as trophies.

Surkar’s armor is littered around the room as if it was carelessly discarded. If Surkar wanted to sleep his way into a higher rank, the least he could do would be to respect his position. All the same, now he doesn’t have anything to wear to the banquet tomorrow. How embarrassing.

There's lots of artwork— depicting the Emperor in many of his victories over the centuries. Several of them don't depict the Emperor, even though they are in the Galran art style. Champion recognizes some of the stories he's heard from the juveniles, passed down from the home world.

There's a steaming bowl set aside with some matching goblets— the Emperor must have been drinking earlier with Surkar. Champion pauses to sniff at it. It's thick and coppery, and the smell almost makes him homesick for Earth. It’s human blood, of course. The Emperor has grown very fond of the drink and commissioned several batches since its recent ‘discovery’. Champion doesn't have much of a taste for it, though he's never turned down a warm drink, but it doesn't have the same inebriating effects on him like it does for the Galra.

He’d been asked to donate several times now, but to do so would mean to leave Malch and give up his glory in the Arena for a life of simple comforts. Champion thinks he would probably go insane with boredom of routine meals and routine drainings. Better to let the other humans in Galra custody handle that. They aren’t strong enough to survive outside of their pampered lifestyle.

Considering it's going to be a long night, he debates having a drink to keep warm in the Galra-cold room, but decides he won't take from the Emperor’s personal cauldron until he has permission.

The Emperor has many shelves of reading material. Curious, as most reading is done electronically now which saves storage. Malch has many scrolls she prefers, as she wants to keep copies of her spell books from being stolen by any hackers. The Emperor must be similar.

Champion realizes he hasn’t checked on the Emperor in some time, and quickly tunes himself back into the moment. The Emperor is still breathing, heavy and raspy, but a stable rhythm. Nothing to alert Malch about just yet.

While Champion wants to read through the books the Emperor has— he loves learning all he can about the Galra and the Empire, and Malch has always stressed the importance of knowledge to him— but Champion can’t keep his attention on the titles. His eyes slide off, and he walks further into the room. It’s almost like when Malch takes control of his body. He’s being called, drawn in by something he can’t quite name. It has to be magic. He can feel it pulling at him, whispering in his ears.

It feels like Malch. He doesn’t fight it. She’s probably trying to show him something important.

The source comes from the Emperor’s armor. It’s set out for a cleaning, which used to be Surkar’s job, and Champion wonders offhand who cleans it now. Even the armor is immense, and warded with so many layers of spells it’s hard to look at. Champion lets the magic calling him guide him. He runs his fingers along the Emperor’s armor, not quite touching, but enough to feel the warm hum of spellwork.

A spell activates for him, without prompting, and a weapon materializes in his hands. He doesn’t know what it is— but it’s drenched in magic. It feels like it could almost be pure quintessence, barely contained in a material frame. The designs on it aren’t Galra, and they’re not in any language Champion’s familiar with.

It has a similar design to the damaged helmet Malch keeps in her study— and maybe to the armor Champion thinks he saw the Emperor wearing in Malch’s oldest memories of him. Champion wonders how they are connected. The weapon is warm in his hands, but not in temperature. He feels like he is shaking hands with an old friend, like he’s coming home. This is meant for him, this weapon is calling out to him. It knows him, and it wants him to wield it—

“Champion?” Malch’s voice breaks his concentration.

Champion snaps his head up and realizes he’s been caught snooping. He doesn’t insult Malch by trying to hide what he’s done. He meets her gaze nervously. It’s been so long since he last stepped out of line. He hopes she can forgive him.

She’s made her way across the room to him, and he didn’t even notice her aura creeping in around his senses. She stops short when she sees the weapon in his hand and her eyes widen as her ears snap forwards attentively.

“The bayard!” she gasps, “how did you find it?”

“It called me,” he explains. She knows magic. She knows how it can lead one astray, or dim out other thoughts. She has to understand.

“Called you?” she echoes. She’s shocked. Champion’s never seen her at such a loss. She shakes her head, “that’s impossible, it cannot… unless…”

Before she can finish her thought the Emperor begins coughing and shaking. He’s seizing and crying in pain.

“With me,” Malch orders Champion, and bounds across the room to attend the Emperor.

Champion doesn’t think twice and releases the weapon. It becomes light and returns to the quintessence woven into Emperor’s armor as if it had never existed in the first place.

Malch is crafting spells but there’s so much to focus on. Champion begins threading extra charms in behind hers, strengthening hers wherever he can. It’s exhaustive work that requires their full attention.

They don’t stop for a long time.  


* * *

  
The Emperor is talking when Champion awakens. Malch is still working on the Emperor, but his colour has returned and he seems alert and aware of his surroundings. Champion has been set on the bench that Malch rested on earlier. They both look up when Champion pulls himself into a sitting position.

“It appears we both required assistance today,” the Emperor jokes.

Champion flushes embarrassedly and ducks his head, “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, sir,” he says instead. He poured too much of himself into helping Malch work her spells, and overshot his boundaries. He’s not sure exactly when he fell unconscious, but it must have been a while ago.

“We’re not done yet,” Malch admits to the Emperor, “but you have survived the worst.”

“It felt like the worst,” the Emperor chuckles, and then begins coughing again.

Champion fetches him some tea that Malch had brewed in his absence. It’s been sitting for some time, as it’s no longer steaming, but it still warms the bowl as he brings it to the Emperor.

The Emperor waves him away.

“I don’t need that water,” he sighs, “some blood would do me good to take the edge off of my pain. Champion, fetch me a goblet.”

“That would not be wise,” Malch advises.

“You’re not my mother, Haggar, and you’re not a very good nurse. I should’ve gone into a healing chamber hours ago,” the Emperor grunts.

Champion bristles at the insult. The Emperor only speaks Old Galran, so he’s hard to understand sometimes, but he uses the word _Haggar_ to refer to Malch. He bites his tongue to keep from defending her. Malch is more than capable of defending herself. Champion remembers his urge to rip out Surkar’s tongue, and the stronger urge to kill the Emperor mercifully earlier. His blood is boiling, and he absently wishes he’d gone through with at least one of the thoughts.

Malch doesn’t seem to mind the insult, “Do you not trust me to know what is best for you, my lord? It is well known that you have been enjoying the human blood as of late.”

“Is it so wrong to have some simple comforts? I have very long days of work, and it relaxes me. That’s hardly a crime,” Zarkon grumbles.

“Of course not,” Malch agrees, “and you drank with Surkar earlier, yes?”

“Yes, Haggar. We were chatting and ran late, missed the fights,” Zarkon turned to grin at Champion, all yellow and damaged teeth, “fortunately it wasn’t one of your fights. I wouldn’t miss those for any talks.”

The Emperor is regaining strength, but he’s still not strong enough. Even with his magic drained, Champion is confident he could kill Zarkon.

“I did fight,” Champion says, and even as he speaks he realizes how rude he’s being, and tries to amend his tone, “it would have been an honor to have you there, sir.”

“Yes,” the Emperor says, “but, um, something came up.”

“I understand Surkar had important business to discuss with you,” Malch redirects, and Champion flinches when she glares at him over Zarkon’s head. The Emperor may not be offended by Champion’s petty tone, but Malch definitely is.

“Important business, yes, that’s what it was,” the Emperor agrees, and chuckles to himself. He’s still mostly delirious with pain and exhaustion.

Champion glances around at Surkar’s armor, and the half-drunk goblets of wine on the table. Surkar was a fling, but the Emperor hadn’t grown tired of him. Malch needed him gone, or the Emperor was going to start neglecting all of his duties.

“Do you know why you’re ill?” Champion asks.

Malch shoots him a warning look, and normally he would bow out respectfully, but he has an idea.

“I’m old,” the Emperor snaps, as if Champion was too dumb to realize that, “sometimes things get a little… not good. But a quick trip to the healing chambers fixes me right up.”

“But it only happened after you drank with Surkar?” Champion says.

“No, we were still drinking. Surkar doesn’t… he doesn’t drink much while he’s _in_ armor,” the Emperor explains.

“He _started_ off in his armor,” Champion observes, and he smiles like a friend when the Emperor laughs.

Malch’s hackles are rising, and she’s probably about ready to beat him senseless for disobeying her. She’s raging in their bond, and Champion tries to tell her that he knows what he’s doing, but it feels patronizing and makes her angrier.

“But you drink with him. Every night? So he would know your schedule?”

The Emperor’s grin falls, “What are you saying? Out with it Champion— don’t play word games with me.”

“Champion doesn’t know what he’s—” Malch begins, and Champion cuts her off. It’s practically a death sentence to do so, but he’s hoping she’ll forgive him once she realizes what he’s doing.

“You were poisoned,” Champion says bluntly. He sees Malch’s eyes widen.

“Poisoned! A coward's weapon!” the Emperor scoffs, “tread carefully, Champion. Surkar is a trusted friend.”

Champion hasn’t built up the loyalty to convince the Emperor to side with him over his lover. This is where Malch can sell him out, or lay down the final pieces of the trap Champion has laid down.

“A friend who you have raised through the ranks far too quickly,” Malch scolds the Emperor, drawing his attention to her now, “you trust too openly, my lord. You do not know Surkar’s true nature. You do not know what goes on in his mind. You do not know that he loves and supports you, as I do.”

Champion almost sighs in relief, but he’s not stupid enough to give the deception away like that.

“You accuse him of treason,” Zarkon replies, “I do not take that lightly.”

“Nor do I,” Malch says.

Champion salutes perfectly, projecting the image of an honest, loyal subject, “I was the one who discovered it. In the human blood. That’s why we couldn’t take you to medical for a cryopod. If the coup knew you were recovering, they might still retaliate while you are weak. Malch was your only hope.”

Malch’s pride surges through their bond and Champion fights to keep a grin off of his face.

The Galra have many crimes that are punishable by death. Treason is, of course, one of them. Often those found guilty of treason are given to the druids for experiments, or put into the Arena to fight until they die. For attempting to kill the Emperor, Champion’s not sure which one Surkar will be sentenced to, or which one Malch wants him sent to.

Deceiving the Emperor must carry similar punishments.

Zarkon growls, a rumble low in his chest that seems to make the air vibrate. His ears— one whole and one mostly shredded— twitch unhappily.

“I had believed Surkar a… friend,” he sighs, “I wanted someone with whole I could speak freely, out of uniform.”

“You are the Emperor,” Malch consoles him, “your burden is heavy, and no one will understand what you have gone through. What you are still doing.”

“None except you,” Zarkon agrees, and he takes a moment to compose himself, “have you located Surkar yet?”

“I will have Sendak find him,” Malch promises, “he will be held until next cycle, when we are ready to deal with him. Unless you think this must be dealt with now. Perhaps a show of strength, of terror, will change any ideas of another attempt on your life.”

“Yes!” Zarkon growls, “It has been too long since a show of my power. They think they can overthrow me! Chain Surkar up for me at the banquet. I will show the people what my teeth do to traitors.”

“An excellent idea, my lord,” Malch nearly purrs, “but I do not know if you will be recovered in time for the banquet.”

“I must appear,” Zarkon said, “they will think me weakened if I do not go.”

“Appearances are important,” Malch agrees, “yes, it will be better for you to attend. But I suggest you hobble Surkar, or at least muzzle him, to keep him from fighting you. While you will appear strong, you need time to recover your strength.”

A muzzle will keep him from protesting his innocence, Champion notes.

“I will consider it,” Zarkon sighs, “but I am tired now.”

“You may sleep,” Malch allows, “but the poison did great damage, I must continue to treat you.”

“Do what you must,” Zarkon says. He looks resigned, as someone who is being forced to kill a friend must feel.

Champion stays where he is, on the opposite side of the bed from Malch. She goes back to work weaving her spells without looking at him. She’s pulled away from him, cutting their bond for the time being so she can focus on her work, so Champion can’t even feel her or her thoughts. He can’t believe they did it. They lied to the Emperor, and she successfully lured him into eating an innocent Galra to be sure that Surkar can never protest his own innocence or bother them again.

When he looks at her, he sees her in an entirely new light. She’s the true strength, the cunning mind and powerful words that created the Empire, he realizes. When Zarkon speaks it is her words, when he makes an order it is her decision. Where she directs, Zarkon will go.

Champion and Zarkon are not so different.

A chill runs down Champion’s spine. They’re alone with the Emperor, because Malch is trusted absolutely, and Champion will never betray her. He has half a mind to act on impulse, to kill the Emperor, and take the Empire for Malch. Zarkon is the only thing standing between her and true power.

Malch is so much stronger than he is, though, and far smarter too. And she’s kept Zarkon all these years. It stays Champion’s hand as he thinks. Malch continues humming spells and weaving them into the ongoing stream of magic that is keeping Zarkon alive.

It smells so badly of rot that Champion can’t stay still. He’s thrumming with exhilaration at his realization, and wracking his brain to think of what has held Malch back all these years. Misguided tenderness for an old comrade? Does Malch believe that the Emperor truly is Eternal and tied to the status of the Empire? He walks away before his murderous whim can get him into trouble. He’s aware of Malch watching him. She knows him so well, knows every corner of his mind— even the places he himself is too afraid to explore just yet— and so she must know what he’s thinking. But they don’t say anything. The Emperor is still awake, and when Malch is done he will continue breathing and living and speaking.

The Emperor can’t be aware of the influence, Champion reasons. If he were aware, like Champion is, he would have cast Malch out or killed her. The Emperor is in a position unlike Champion: Zarkon will survive without Malch. Or, it’s likely that he won’t survive long without her magic, but there are many more druids under his command. And with how Malch has to fight for the Emperor’s attention from others like Sendak, she must be spinning convoluted webs to trap him and setting up the motions for him to follow. Zarkon doesn’t know about this.

As to why Malch would keep someone who could betray her? Champion knows she’s more careful than that. She doesn’t move until the timing is just right, no matter how tempting. So why is this not the right time? The Empire would be hers for the taking. She’s aware of all the moving parts— she’s the Advisor to the Emperor. It’s arguable that she knows _more_ about the Empire than he does.

It’s because the Emperor _is_ the Empire, Champion finally reasons.

They both have existed so long that they’re nearly symbiotic. Without an Empire, there’s no need for Zarkon, and without Zarkon, the Empire will collapse in on itself. The Emperor’s name is known throughout the galaxies, in a way that no other name will ever be known. No one else has the stature or presence grand enough to own the Universe. Malch is strong, but she works from the shadows. If Zarkon were to die, she could slip away easily, but taking power could prove too treacherous for her.

Malch has to keep him alive to keep her power. And she can do that, Champion knows. She’s incredible at magic. More skilled than anything Champion has ever encountered. She’ll keep him alive until his body rots away and his bones turn to dust, if that’s what it takes to hold the Empire together. Malch will last forever, Zarkon less so.  


* * *

  
It’s the daytime cycle by the time Malch finishes with Zarkon. She’s restored his organs to the best of her abilities, and gotten him back into working order. Zarkon dresses in his armor while Malch and Champion gather their things. They won’t have time to return home before the Banquet, and so Champion is glad they will have their robes to cover the fatigue on their faces.

Appearances are important, but Champion can see that Malch is swaying on her feet. He’s never seen her work such incredible magic for such a prolonged period of time. Champion wonders for a moment if it would be possible to ask the Emperor for permission to take Malch home, and to have their meals brought to them. But today the Emperor has to sentence a traitor to death, one that Champion and Malch discovered. They have to be present for the death. It’s going to be a long day.

Malch truly is tired, because as they leave the Emperor’s quarters she drops to walk on all fours. The only times Champion has seen her do this is on the last feeding day, in the enclosure, where the Galra like to revel in being feral. Malch does not like padding around like an animal, but she can’t stay upright. Champion takes the bags she was carrying and walks beside her. If they weren’t so different in size he would offer to help support her weight.

They arrive at the mess hall before the Emperor at least. Most of the High Council has gathered inside already, and there’s a dark mood in the air that’s eclipsing the fun of feeding day. Even the prisoners being ushered inside seem to sense it, and they’re unusually silent and cowed.

Surkar has already been chained in front of the Emperor’s throne. He’s been beaten, had large chunks of fur ripped out, muzzled, and hobbled so that his hind legs are useless to him now. Champion is sure that Surkar spots them, and he bares his teeth at the Galra for daring to try and outwit Malch.

“I heard last night proved interesting,” Sendak approaches them. He’s dressed in his armor, and for once isn’t drooling despite how close it is to feeding time. He looks hilariously lopsided without his prosthetic, but Champion’s too tired to mock him.

“Indeed,” Malch agrees.

“It’s a good thing you were there to save the Emperor,” Sendak says, “and to discover the poison.”

“We should have known Surkar had an agenda,” Malch sighs, almost dramatic with the sound, “with how quickly the Emperor warmed to him.”

“Yes, very unfortunate that Surkar can no longer talk the Emperor out of your plans,” Sendak nods sagely.

“Or your plans,” Champion said slowly, “I know Surkar was against your conscription proposal.”

Sendak’s return smile is all sharp teeth. His mechanical eye lit up menacingly.

“He will claim he had no agenda,” Malch said, “He may even try to turn the Emperor and the Council against me.”

“I assume that is what a traitor would do,” Sendak nodded in agreement, “but it will be hard to speak without a tongue.”

Champion glances back into the mess hall to where Surkar is waiting for the Emperor to devour him. Surkar wasn’t missing a tongue when Champion last saw him?

“He struggled, when I arrested him,” Sendak elaborates, “and talked quite a bit. His tongue may have been bitten off in the process.”

Malch laughs a wheezing hyena chortle, “What an unfortunate thing,” she says, with fake pity.

“It’s all that traitors deserve, for deceiving the Emperor like that,” Sendak says carefully, “but just because Surkar is silenced, it doesn’t mean someone else might speak for him…”

Malch growls, though she doesn’t snarl to draw attention to them. Champion recognizes the game that Sendak is playing.

“Anyone could be kept silent,” he says, “for a price.”

“For a price,” Sendak agrees.

“If we hurry, no one will even know you lost your arm,” Champion informs him, “but you have to carry Malch’s bags." 

* * *

 

 

* * *

  
Champion and Sendak return— Sendak triumphantly swinging his reacquired arm as if he’s a child with a new toy— with only minutes to spare before the Emperor enters the mess hall.

Surkar is struggling against his chains, and whining loudly and begging for mercy. That’s what Champion assumes he’s saying at least. It’s impossible to tell when he’s been made mute and is wearing a muzzle.

Malch’s spells have worked miracles again. Champion can see that the Emperor is tired, but only because he’s aware that the Emperor is still recovering from being on the brink of death. Otherwise he looks just as powerful and terrifying as he does on every Feeding Day.

Champion wonders if the Emperor’s strength has always been an illusion. Has it always been Malch’s magic that makes him stand tall? For a moment he thinks the pride he feels at the thought is hers, for being praised, until he realizes it’s his own. Let Sendak chase the Emperor’s attentions, Champion is smart enough to know where the real power is.

Zarkon leads them through the traditional speech, and Champion doesn’t so much hear the words as he listens to the familiar cadence of the Emperor’s voice. He salutes perfectly, between Sendak and Malch, and the three of them are loud as they cry out ‘Glory to the Emperor. Glory to the Empire. Nothing will stop us but victory or death.”

As the final ‘vrepit sa’s’ echo in the hall, Zarkon holds his hands out to silence everyone. No one is shocked by what’s about to happen, though none are very excited by it. The prisoners are huddled together in the middle of the room, and they are the only ones not privy to what they are about to see.

“There are traitors in our ranks,” Zarkon says. He’s speaking slowly, and Champion wonders if it’s to conserve his strength, or if he’s hesitant about what he has to do. Any hesitation could mean that he will discover the plot to frame Surkar.

Surkar is desperately shaking his head in disagreement and whining. He tries dragging himself to the Emperor’s feet, but the chain around his neck keeps him from getting close enough.

“The plotted to overthrow me, to poison me in my own home,” several Galra around the room snarl at Surkar, “but they failed to realize that I am the Emperor. I am the Empire. Nothing shall stop me, not even death!”

Sendak leads the cheer, slamming his prosthetic to his armor so loudly that the sound rings out like a gong, “Vrepit Sa!” he shouts, and the hall takes it up, chanting and cheering the Emperor’s strength.

It gives the Emperor some confidence. He speaks faster now.

“I had once thought Surkar to be a loyal friend, but I see him for what he is. A traitor.”

“Traitor!” someone echoes. Champion doesn’t take his eyes off the Emperor. Until Surkar is dead, there’s still a chance the Emperor might change his mind.

Surkar turns to look at them, and looks right at Champion. He has to know. He must know that it was Champion, and by extension, Malch and Sendak who set him up. Champion can see the moment that Surkar decides to change tactics to save his own life.

Before he can start gesturing at them, to implicate them, Malch waves her hand and crushes the bones in Surkar’s arms. Surkar screams, though the muzzle impedes his mouth. Champion knows firsthand how painful that spell can be. It’s… it’s nice to watch it happen to someone else.

“Bow before your master,” Malch snarls, “have some dignity in the end, you coward.”

“Patience,” Zarkon says to Malch, as if he’s scolding her. She bows her head, saluting respectfully. She’s so exhausted that she sits back in her chair rather than stay standing. Both she and Champion have kept their hoods up, to mask their tiredness, and Champion prods at their bond to get her attention. He’ll give her his strength, if she asks for it. He doesn’t have much to give but he offers anyways. She denies him.

It’s interesting, Champion thinks as he looks between Surkar and the Emperor. Their position is not so different as Champion and Malch’s. Champion was a low prisoner who Malch rose above his station, and even gave him a seat at her side. There are many who dislike Champion simply for that, Sendak amongst them. How easy would it be for any of them to try and frame or do away with Champion the same that he’s now done to Surkar? At least Champion works hard to keep his position— with the Arena fights and his intense magic training, on top of war room meetings and helping to train the juveniles. Malch wouldn’t be interested in Champion if he was just her concubine. She’d have grown bored and eaten him a long time ago.

Zarkon continued speaking while Champion was distracted. He tunes back in as the Emperor is finishing his speech,

“And so, the Empire finds Surkar guilty of treason. And he shall face justice for his crimes. Let this be a warning to my enemies— my teeth will find you, no matter where you hide!”

There’s no triumphant cheer from the High Council. They all watch grimly as Zarkon begins removing his armor. Surkar is shaking, sobbing as loudly as the muzzle will allow him, and whimpering every time he tries to move his broken limbs. He glares up at Champion, snarling behind the muzzle. Champion snarls back.

Zarkon drops to all fours, and for a moment his jaws hang over Surkar’s head.

Champion is close enough to hear when the Emperor whispers, “Was it all a lie? Even when you told me…”

Surkar whimpers, and tries to lift his head to nuzzle the Emperor. Sendak rumbles a growl, and the Emperor is reminded of where he is.

“You brought this on yourself,” the Emperor says softly. Surkar whines loudly, a last desperate plea, and then the Emperor’s teeth are opening his side like he’s biting into a ripe fruit.

The High Council and the clustered prey all have to wait and watch while the Emperor devours the traitor. Surkar lives, and screams, through most of it.

It’s what he deserves, for impeding and then insulting Malch, Champion thinks.  


* * *

  
The prey aren't very docile when the drones are allowed to sort through them. They cry and shove and try to fight back, as they have a very good idea of what their chains are for and why the Galra are gathered together today. The Emperor is still hungry, as he must regain his strength, and his quivering choices are forced to stand in all that remains of Surkar.

With the relief of Surkar being dead, and the possibility of being found out is over, the exhaustion of the night hits Champion. He barely has the strength to make his selection from the line of prey, or to see Sendak’s open grin when the Commander is allowed to select from the Emperor’s choices as well. It’s a gift for his loyalty.

They kill their prey at the start, rather than toy with it. Even Sendak is tired and simply crushes his prey’s skull with his prosthetic before he begins eating. Champion hardly notices when the Emperor leaves them. Working magic is exhausting, and it also works up an appetite on top of the fact that Champion’s been fasting for so long just so that he is good and hungry for today. He eats quickly, and each bite tastes wonderful and savory with the knowledge that he was victorious. Malch had a problem, and Champion solved it. Better yet, she lied to the Emperor for him.

They eat quickly, and are some of the first to be done. Champion feels like he could climb into his chair and sleep right there, in the middle of the banquet. Malch walks beside him, on all fours with her head down and her hood drawn low. As soon as they’re alone in the halls, he leans into her and after a moment feels her lean back. It’s not safe to talk where they still might be overheard, and so they make their trek home in silence.  


* * *

  
As soon as they're inside, alone and away from prying ears and eyes, Malch grabs him and holds his head between her palms. Champion’s stomach drops. He’d forgotten how badly he’d disobeyed her in the Emperor’s chambers, when she hadn’t realized what he was doing for her. He’d even talked over her, completely cut her off as if they were equals. He’d thought she’d forgiven him for that, once she’d caught onto his plan, and she realized that he hadn’t meant to be rude, but it had been a necessity. He thinks back to her breaking Surkar’s arms with a wave of her hand. He knows she can do so much worse.

He braces for pain.

“You deceitful, cunning, traitorous—” her words are all sharp and intended to be a scolding, but she opens their bond at the same time, and the pride that surges through is so strong that it's overwhelming, and it makes Champion feel lightheaded.

“—reckless, wonderful little monster,” she finishes fondly.

Champion cups one of her hands, keeping it against his face. He’s so relieved he doesn’t have anything to say at first. Her praise lights him up, reinvigorates him and he feels like he could fight a hundred more battles in the Arena.

Thinking of the Arena reminds him of last night, of the Emperor’s absence due to Surkar, and the unfortunate end they witnessed today. Would it be just as easy to turn Malch against him, as it was to turn the Emperor against Surkar? Champion has to make sure she will never doubt him.

“Not traitorous,” he says, “I am loyal. But not to the Emperor.”

“Oh?” and the bond goes silent as Malch considers his words.

She's very still and quiet when she speaks next, “Is your loyalty to the empire?”

She's playing a game, drawing it out because she wants to hear Champion reject any loyalties he might have once held. It’s one Champion is happy to play along with. He gladly denounces the Empire, “No.”

She licks her lips and ventures, “to earth- to humans?”

Champion tightens his grip on her hand and makes eye contact with her, “It's you. It's always been you.”

“Champion,” she whispers, a sigh so fond that Champion would know her adoration even if he couldn't feel the swell of it through their bond. It's consuming and primal and so full of love that it brings tears to his eyes.

If anyone thinks Champion’s loyalty lies with the Empire then they do not know him well at all. Champion has no loyalty to the Emperor or to the Empire. The Galra have taken him hostage and hurt him in ways that will mark and haunt him for the rest of his life.

His loyalty lies with Malch. She unlocked his true nature, his strengths and his potential. She made him greater than he could ever dream to be, and she knows him as no one else will know him. She loves every part of him, even the darkness that would make others shy away in fear. Just as Champion loves and understands her.

“My loyalty, my obedience, my love. All for you,” he says, and he’s not sure he was ready to state all of this so plainly, in the heady thrill after a meal while they’re both covered in blood and exhausted, “my body, my soul and my life are yours. The Emperor and the Empire can crumble and fall for all I care, but I will be with you— for you.”

There aren’t words for the intensity of or even for the specific emotions Malch is flooding their bond with. She presses her lips to his temple, and then to his cheek in a grateful kiss. The human actions make Champion swell with pride under her affection. He explained the human cultural meanings behind them cycles ago, and for her to use human motions to express herself to him is so meaningful.

She tilts his face up with a finger under his chin, so that she can look him in the eyes, “I did not realize the gift I had been given when I made you mine. You are everything I have ever wanted.”

Champion’s throat is tight with emotion. How can he respond to that? He’s unable to hold eye contact and looks away bashfully, blinking back happy tears. The jar with the eyes is still sitting out on the bedside table from where he left it last night.

“I had a surprise for you,” he says, “though… it may be too late now.”

She slips off her robe and hangs it by the door.

“I don’t mind surprises,” she says. Which is a lie. Malch hates surprises. She likes to know everything, but this is a good surprise. She won’t mind this one. Champion hangs up his robe beside hers, and then guides her to the bed. She glances at the eyes in the jar and pretends like she didn’t know they were there.

“Thank you Champion, I am sure we can make good use of these,” she smiles, picking up the jar from the bedside table.

“That’s not the surprise,” he admits.

Her smile disappears and her ears snap upright from their relaxed position. It’s Champion’s turn to smile now, because he did it. He did keep a secret from her.

“What do you mean?” she presses, “You don’t have secrets. You can’t have secrets. We’re open with one another.”

“It’s only a little one,” he promises, and kneels down to get into his old cage. They’ve since draped a nice cloth over it and have begun to use it as their bedside table, because Champion doesn’t sleep in there any more. It’s been so long since either of them thought of it as a cage that he knew she wouldn’t think to snoop in there.

It took him the whole cycle to prepare this. He couldn’t use the credits Malch afforded him to purchase anything, since she would be able to inquire about what he was spending them on, and so everything had to be done through bets or small favors. But he did it.

He presents her with a goblet, smaller than the ones other Galra like Sendak or Zarkon use, so it fits better to her hands. He had it crafted for her, and even wove the spells into it that will help keep the blood warm and at the perfect temperature for drinking.

“Champion…” she says slowly. She’s in awe. Even Champion is surprised by himself. He didn’t think he would be able to do this, with how often she’s in his mind. He had to work so hard to keep this secret that it nearly exhausted him.

The last of the surprise is harder to pull out, because it’s heavier. A crate of blood, all properly treated for being served, and neatly packaged for her convenience.

“I know you aren’t fond of the Emperor’s stock, from the other humans,” he says, and is suddenly aware that he’s kneeling in front of her and presenting her with a box. To look at the scene from a human perspective is a little funny, though he doesn’t share that thought.

“I know you prefer mine, so I made you your own cache,” he says, “just for you.”

It had been so hard to carefully time everything. He’d nearly been caught several times, when she’d come home early or checked in on him through their bond while he was drawing blood. But he’d gotten quite good at it after a few times, and by timing it properly around his Arena fights, he was always able to mask the bruises and the marks from the needles, or the scent of his blood.

“I wanted you to have a drink, for last night mostly, that you could enjoy whenever you wanted. But, unfortunately, things didn’t go as planned,” he smiled up at her.

She was in shock, and at a loss for words. That’s twice now, in one day, that Champion’s seen her like this. He has to remember to ask her about the Emperor’s weapon that he discovered— what had she called it? A bayard?

“Would you like some?” he offers, “or are you full?”

She recovers, and hands him the goblet, “Pour for two; I have good news to share.”

Champion happily obliges, and then follows her into bed. She takes the first sip while he wraps up in his blankets, and he waits a moment to watch her savor the taste.

“It’s perfect,” she says, and licks her lips.

She hands the goblet to him and he drinks while she starts speaking.

“I have found a replacement for my rune bones,” she says excitedly, “a new species I have not tested yet, that has proven very skilled with magic. They will be strong bones indeed.”

Champion passes the goblet back to her, “Who?” he asks.

Malch smiles, “The Emperor was so pleased with our work last night, that he has granted us permission to use human bones.”

_Our_ work, she said. Not her work. Champion feels like he only did a fraction of the work that Malch did, but she’s including him all the same. It makes a shiver of thrill run up his spine.

“We can go harvest once we wake up,” she explains, and takes a long drink of his blood before passing the goblet back to him, “are you excited?”

It’s strange, tasting his own blood without having been hurt for it. But it’s not unpleasant. The treatment to keep the blood from clotting gives it a rich flavor that Champion can’t quite put his finger on. It still has a sour aftertaste of iron, but it’s reminiscent of dry wines from Earth so he hardly notices it.

“I’m very interested in carving runes,” he admits, and decides to venture further, “perhaps I can get my own casting bones soon?”

Malch chuckles, and accepts the goblet, “You’re not ready, not just yet. But I will teach you to carve them, and we can begin practicing for them. But that’s not what I asked— I meant, are you excited to see the humans you were captured with? It’s been four cycles now, and you’ve changed so much. I don’t know if they’ll recognize you anymore.”

It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that Champion started off his time here with other humans. It was for such a short, chaotic time that it feels more like a dream. Malch is right; so much has changed about him. He’s not even sure he could recognize himself. When he thinks back to himself on earth, to Takashi, it’s like he was someone else entirely until Malch remade him into someone stronger.

“They won’t,” Champion agrees, “because I’m not who I was before. They knew me as Takashi. And he died in the Arena.”

“You are my Champion,” Malch hums in agreement, and finishes the blood.

Champion sets the goblet on the bedside table— what was his old cage— and then cuddles up close to Malch. He’s gorged and tired, and still warm from the inside-out with the roller coaster of confessions and loyalty Malch showed him today. He thinks for a moment, of Zarkon, who must be sleeping alone for the first time in weeks now. Zarkon should have been smarter for how he handled Surkar, and in the future he won’t make the same mistakes. This just needed to be a painful learning experience.

“The bones,” Champion mumbles, half asleep, “humans sometimes use bones for casting magic too. Some of them, at least.”

Malch rumbles a reply, hardly more than a growl.

“I think they used finger bones,” Champion says, “that’s what all the media showed. So when we harvest, we should take an arm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Holts!!! Are alive!!! Thank god they're not in the Arena's, and actually they're living pretty comfy lives... as... bloodbags... that's better than a work camp, right?
> 
> **I hope y'all notice how horribly Shiro is rationalizing everything! Captor bonding is such a royal fuck-up to the brain, and Shiro bonding with Haggar is the only thing keeping him alive here. So I mean, while we're all shouting 'shiro SHE'S the one who hurt you!!!' he can't have any room to hate her, or else he'll end up like he did in Chapter 2, but probably without another chance for redemption. ): poor guy. (shiro i'm sorry i love torturing you)
> 
> (i'm not sorry)
> 
> **For fun art things:
> 
>  
> 
> [Here's an inktober drawing featuring Haggar and Shiro from this 'verse, just being casually domestic ](http://demenior.tumblr.com/post/151364011179/i-love-inktober-but-i-usually-only-get-like-7)
> 
>  
> 
> [Here's my take on Galra Keith trying to make Pidge think he's cool (it doesn't work) ](http://demenior.tumblr.com/post/150393066694/read-r-l-rather-than-be-weirded-out-or-scared)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **As always, comments are what make my wretched writer's heart thrive! I love hearing from you!!
> 
>  
> 
> See y'all on the next (and last! omg) feeding day!


	5. Feeding Day the 5th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey everyone! I'm back from my trip in central america (it was amazing! long story short: sleepover on a volcano, swam in the most beautiful lake in the world, swam with sharks and manatees, went fishing on a reef, hiked mayan ruins and met a lot of awesome people!) but even more exciting is that this is the final chapter of Little Monster!!
> 
> **(okay maybe it's a little sad too, but mostly exciting!)
> 
> **All links in the chapter are just informational, and sfw. Still, open at your own discression!
> 
> **Fair warning that this is the first chapter that has ever made me feel nauseous to write. (hint: eye-scream, you scream, we all scream 'oh my god, shiro NOOOO!') but I'm so proud of it! I think y'all are gonna love it too. It's the perfect send-off to a great story :)
> 
> **For those of you interested, the term 'Malch' has been given it's translation in [It Was Your Heart on the Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7984318/chapters/18268852), which is the next story in the Switch the Beat series. You'll also see some other characters that we've previously met in Little Monster :)
> 
> **The rebel attack that Shiro keeps talking about happens in [Blackout](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8332594), which occurs almost directly after chapter 3.
> 
> **I haven't made any fun art for this chapter, sorry! But I did go and add a fun little bit of art of Shiro, Sendak and Haggar conspiring together last chapter. Scroll through the chapter to see it :)
> 
> ** (that being said, oh my god if anyone ever did any art or writing because of this story you should share it with me immediately!!! i think i would actually die in excitement)
> 
> **As always, I've tried to make this story fit as nicely as I can into the canon of the show, and as such there's even dialogue straight from the first episode here!
> 
> **Shiro has been with the Galra for ~1 Earth Year

“In conclusion: if the Kaskada System declares itself an ally of the Rebellion, it will be considered an act of war by the Empire. If the Kaskada System is found guilty of supplying the Rebellion with any help— should that be provisions, weapons, shelter or intelligence; that will be considered an act of war against the Empire. If the Kaskada System repents now, and admits to any of the above, these acts can be forgiven. The Kaskada System would no longer be allowed to govern freely and will be placed directly under the control of the Empire, to protect the citizens from the threat of the Rebellion…”

This conference has gone on for days. Champion couldn't care less. He knows the system is guilty. He can smell the stench of the rebels on the energy of everyone gathered here. They don't like the Galra. They don't like the Empire. It simmers in the air like the smell of rotting meat. Zarkon wants this system to come under the Empire's control peacefully. He wants to move away from being warmongers. Champion knows enough of the Empire’s history to know that it's been too long since the Empire showed its power. The people are no longer afraid, and that means they are no longer scared to question. The Rebel Alliance is seductive: fight against the oppressors, strike at their forces and supply lines and vanish before you can be caught. It's tales of heroism, and nearly cutting off Zarkon’s right hand. The Emperor should always appear untouchable, immortal even, and while [the mission to capture Malch had failed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8332594), the rebels had gained serious popularity afterwards. More and more systems are beginning to break away. Now is not the time for peaceful actions.

Champion keeps his hood drawn low. He's here on Malch’s behalf, to have the intimidation of a Druid to help scare the leaders into confessing. There's enough magical ignorance in the universe that lesser systems like this one will probably assume Champion is reading their thoughts whenever he pleases, even though his magic training is far from complete. And since only Druids are allowed to practice magic in the Empire, there should be no one here to block him.

If someone were to block him, it would be outright admission that the rebels are here. So far they’re the first sect of renegade magic users Champion has encountered.

He misses Malch. He can barely feel her, as the bond is always open between them, but she's so far away she might as well be closed to him. He wishes they could be practicing spells or having their own private conversation to pass the time while the Ambassador gives his speech.

He should have his hood off, to show his face. Malch wants him to be more public in politics. She wants the Galra to have a strong leader to look up to. Champion is feeling too petty and tired to keep from rolling his eyes every time one of the many leaders from the system gives a speech full of lies, so Malch will have to forgive him this transgression. He's been popular here anyways, with many fans of his Arena fights clamouring for his attention during his time outside of the conference. Some of them came from outside the system just to have a chance to meet him.

There's serious suspicion that the rebels have a base located in this system. That's the other reason Champion is here. It's too much effort to read every single individual mind for the smallest bit of information, but he keeps himself open just enough that he can skim the surface thoughts in the room. He has to wait for someone to think of the rebels, which is why the Ambassador’s speech was written to continuously repeat that association with the Rebellions is wrong. Eventually someone will break—

Champion’s head snaps up. There. He felt it. _Money quietly set aside, delivered by third parties so no one was the wiser. The knowledge that this was enough to endanger their children, and the surging hatred at the Galra._ There's a rebel supporter amongst the leaders gathered here today.

It's all he needs. His own quintessence hums under his skin, alive like boiling water from being active for so long. He keeps it spread out, soaking up thoughts and feelings as he listens for more intel. The rebel forces have at least one Mage with them— someone practiced in the magical arts like Malch and Champion are, but not trained in Druid ways. They were the ones that crafted the runes that fooled Malch and Champion the day they'd attacked them.

Champion is going to find them and rip them apart.

* * *

  
The conference continues for too much longer. It's late by the time they can leave. Both Champion and the Ambassador are exhausted. Thanks to a mistake in coordinating the dates of the conference, it's taken them right up to Feeding Day, so they're both hungry and have little patience for the prey around them. The Kaskada System is considered a conquered system: they pay their taxes on time without complaints and swear allegiance to the Empire, and have been allowed to govern themselves without any Galran leaders. Next cycle Champion is going to change that. If possible he would raze some planets to make a point. Defying the Empire is futile.

There are lines of fans, still, to greet him as he leaves the hall where the conference is being held. They have recordings of his fights, and holographic cards that they want his fingerprints on. Some of them claim to be wearing his scent— there’s something about gladiators sweat and marketing that Champion has never paid much attention to, except that he’s been earning lots of extra credits to spend on gifts for Malch.

It’s loud and it strains his senses. He has to reel back his quintessence after overworking himself all day. He takes some time to interact with his fans, and spends most of the time trying to temper his appetite. He can’t break fast until the Banquet tomorrow, no matter how tempting or willing the prey is.

The second moon is rising by the time he excuses himself from the fray. Champion doesn't immediately return to his chambers. He's been sitting for too long and needs to stretch. He feels like he wants to kill the next creature that talks to him. He's hungry, tired of lies and so close to tasting rebel blood he can taste it; and he misses Malch. This is the longest they've been apart since she took him in.

It was necessary, the separation. The other Druids are scattered throughout the Empire, and Malch was needed for scrying on the Red Lion. Zarkon is so obsessed with this Voltron weapon, and Malch is more than willing to indulge him on it. Champion doesn't see what's so great about an ancient weapon that no one has seen in thousands of years— especially when _he’s_ the greatest weapon the Galra have ever created and he's right here. But news of Voltron is spreading through the universe like a plague. Finding the Red Lion is a gain for the Empire, and now Champion is sure the Rebellion will be looking for Voltron too.

He finds himself in the old temple a decent walk from where he's staying. He found this place the first night he couldn't sleep: feeling like his bed was too large and cold and the room too foreign without Malch’s presence filling it up. This planet is no longer inhabited by native populations— which is why it's considered neutral ground for the conference— but the temples that were once active are still standing. They're huge, which is laughable considering most of the population in the Kaskada System are small creatures. The temples suggest massive precursors. There are towering statues lining the walls, tucked in between pillars so thick it would take at least five Galra to form a ring around them. Features and details have weathered away with age, and most of them are cracked or broken. Plants grow from the imperfections, vines spilling down to hide what was once great. Champion’s not sure if records exist of who these creatures were or what their deities meant to them. He’ll have to ask Malch about it. She knows so much about the world.

In the dim light of the second moon, the faces of the huge statues are nearly indistinguishable from the shadows. There's still magic in the area— ancient, old and alive despite all these years. It's lost its edge long ago, it's no more than an echo without intent, but once upon a time it must have been humbling to take in. Perhaps the gods had walked amongst their followers, or the connection to them had been strongest here.

The thrill of connecting to this old magic gives Champion goosebumps. It's terrifying in its grandness, despite how weak it is comparatively. But it's existed for so long, just lurking here and it's likely that no one notices it to pay it any attention. It's what drew Champion here that first night, and has him coming back again and again.

His footsteps echo in the grand hall as he walks towards the head of the temple. It's undisturbed, dust and plant life settled in every nook and cranny. The only difference is his footprints from his visits here. There's a raised altar, with a standing platform that's still intact. It's bowl-shaped, and while it's overgrown with moss and ferns, the platform is stained with the unmistakable dark colour of blood. The most grand of the statues stands at the head of the hall. She's lost her identity and Champion can't tell if she was a kind or cruel deity, but her people had sacrificed for her. Whether in love or fear they'd left blood for her to drink in this bowl. He doesn't know if it was theirs, if it was given willing or even if it was just animal sacrifice.

Champion hoists himself up onto the bowl. It's the perfect size to lay down in, and it lets him look up at the god lurking in the dark. She's a guardian, or a tyrant, looking over her subjects. The moss is soft enough to pass for a bed, and the hum of ancient magic surrounds him and presses at his defences for an opening. If he closes his eyes, it almost feels like he's with Malch again.

He feels safe here, sheltered in what feels like Malch’s embrace, that he feels a little reckless. He wants to look at it.

It's a secret, rolled up and hidden away in his mind so carefully that Champion sometimes can't find it. A small note, balled up and crumpled from countless glimpses at its message. He keeps it hidden between panels and wires, right in the walls of his mind. It could so easily be mistaken for scrap that he doesn't fear Malch will even pay it any mind if she sees it.

He has to unfold the memory carefully. It's so delicate it might rip in his grasp. The dark room, the heavy knife and the pale arm pulled taught across the board. The human voices begging begging begging, and he doesn't know why they're so upset when they're going to be so useful— it's like peeling back a layer of a flower bud and with every petal comes a wave of a new sensation. All tied together with a blood-curdling terror that Champion can't understand. And that thrills him.

It delights him that terror of the likes he cannot imagine seeps from this memory. It's so absurd— Champion has seen worse horrors and personally committed far more atrocious and gruesome acts than what exists in this secret. But he thinks it's something in their eyes— in the fact that he has some shared history with the humans— that leaves such a strange emotion in this memory.

The thought that he might have a connection to the humans strong enough to make him disobey Malch is hilarious. They begged and begged with his human name for him to stop, as if that had any hold on him. Takashi died in the Arena, and Champion has sworn off all his ties and alliances to anything that is not Malch.

He's so scared he could be sick, and everything in him wants to reject this memory. It's not even an important memory. The humans cry all the time, so he's told, their tears in his presence weren't anything special.

He runs over the memory as much as he can stomach, until the sense that he needs to _run_ becomes too much. He locks it away to where not even Malch can find it, crumpled up and hidden away in his mind. It's exhausting, that cold rush of emotion.

Champion doesn't always understand why, but whenever he opens this secret he has a moment of clarity where he knows he has to escape. With the secret locked away again he can't recall why that is. Where he is escaping to? Or from? Where does he have to go but home? Why does he want to be anywhere but where he's loved? But the feeling remains like an echo in his bones.

It's confusing, and he's exhausted by the long day of politics and working to scan so many minds. The old magic is singing in his presence, ancient songs in languages he'll never know. Some of them sound like spells or lullabies Malch knows, and Champion tricks himself into thinking she's there watching over him as he curls up in the altar. It makes it easier to sleep.

* * *

  
Even when they depart immediately in the morning, their ship doesn't return to the Royal Fleet until mere hours before the Banquet. Champion finishes his reports on the trip. He doesn't want anything to distract him when he gets home. He is weary from a near week of not sleeping well. As soon as they drop out of Z-space he reaches for Malch. At this distance he can feel her like she’s beside him, and lets her aura wash over him as she greets him. Being without her felt like he was missing a limb, and now he feels whole again.

Stepping from the shuttle into the Galra ship chills Champion. The shuttle had been kept at a much warmer temperature for his sake, as he outranks the Ambassador, and so Champion had gotten accustomed to the heat again. Rather than suffer he ignites the warmth spell Malch helped him create when the cold was making his fingers stiff and affecting his casting. All it takes is a flex of his prosthetic, he’s amazed at how powerful his arm is in that he doesn’t even need words to cast magic now, and he feels the weave of spells on his body warm the air around him. The cold becomes bearable at last.

It takes too long to get home. Champion walks purposefully, with his head up and his hood drawn low. He’s not interested in speaking with anyone, but he won’t run through the halls like a child. He has reputation, his _and_ Malch’s to think about. He watches the rounds of drones passing, already on patrol and having relieved any Galra guards for the next few days. They're on rotation, Champion’s observed them often enough in the early cycle days while the Galra are all still sleepy and he's the only one awake. It's easy enough to recognize the pattern, and he's made a game of sneaking around undetected. He sits with the High Council, he's the reigning champion in the Arena, and he's the protégé to the Emperor’s Right Hand, so it's silly that he should need to sneak around anywhere. But it’s something to pass the time while everyone’s asleep, and so he indulges the whimsy.

* * *

  
Malch is working on her new bones, still finishing carving and setting the last of the runes. They’ve been working so hard on trying to finish the bones this cycle— and finish his prosthetic— and they would have been on time, except they were both called away by duty. Champion can feel the power rolling off of the bones in waves. They’re bleached white, and in the dim light they almost seem to glow.

She doesn’t look up when he enters. She’s channeling a lot of energy into the bone in her claws— he thinks it’s a knuckle— and beginning to attune it to her own quintessence. Like how his prosthetic is linked directly to his own quintessence, so will her rune bones. Her own power will wear them down over the years, but the strength in the bones is incredible. Champion can’t imagine her wanting bones from any other species ever again, and feels a sense of pride at the thought.

The bones have been carefully harvested, cut, dried and bleached and then carved with powerful runes and filled with magic and layered in spells so complex that Champion can't hope to recreate them on his own yet. Malch has walked him through the whole process, and has conceded to his whining that this cycle he can select his own bones to harvest. She thinks an Arusian might do well for him, to start with.

She’s deep in concentration and he doesn’t want to disturb her. He could pull up a chair to sit beside her, but he knows if he stops moving he’s going to get tired. The strange environment of the other planet kept him from sleeping well, and now back home he feels cozy and content even despite the growling of his stomach.

He decides to keep his hands busy. This is an idea he’s brought up to Malch before, but they’ve never taken the time to see if it will work. He moves slowly, as not to disturb her, and comes up behind her so that he can start untangling her mane. She has the longest mane of all Galra— most keep theirs cut short as is regulation, except the Druids that let their manes grow as they turn white from exposure to magic— and it always gets in her way on Feeding Day. It takes them days to wash and comb out all of the blood and bone that gets stuck in it, and get her mane back to it’s beautiful silver color.

Champion isn't sure where he learned this skill. His memories of earth seem so far away now. It's hard to believe that so much of his life happened _before_ Malch. If he’s honest with himself, he feels like his time before was all a dream, and it wasn’t until she found him that he was truly born into the world.

It’s easy, repetitive work and he lets himself get lost to the motions of it while feeling the immensity of her power as she works the bones. They don’t speak for some time, until she finally sets the bone down.

“Champion,” she says, and the sound of her voice makes him smile, “what are you doing?”

He debates a moment on how to answer, before deciding to not explain and let her see the results, “it’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?” there’s laughter in her voice, “very well. How was the conference?”

She knows very well what he thought of it. He’s already given her everything she needs to know through the bond the instant they reconnected. He lets her feel the blast of his boredom and fatigue through the bond, “I loved it,” he says sarcastically.

She catches the tail end of the feeling of awe from being in the temple, and latches onto it.

“What is that?” she asks, and teases those emotions out of his mind. He opens those memories, of aimlessly wandering on lonely, sleepless nights, and stumbling across the scent of old magic, and gives them to her.

“My poor Champion,” she says pityingly. He gives her the wave of relief and excitement he feels at being home, to cheer her up.

“How was the Lion?” he asks, adopting her tone. He wistfully hopes that maybe she’ll reveal that she hated being apart from him just as much as he missed her. Maybe the Red Lion wasn’t very interesting and she’ll forget all about it and stay with him.

“Incredible,” she tells him, and lets Champion feel her mix of emotions. They’re all positive.

“Did you discover anything?” he asks. If the Red Lion is so great, she probably found something useful.

He can practically feel her smirk as she says, “It is a surprise.”

Champion laughs.

They don't talk for a little while. He gets focused on making sure he's braiding her hair properly— there's a lot more of it than he realizes and he has to improvise a bit to keep it all contained.

“I brought you something,” he recalls, and pauses a moment to retrieve his gift from his bag. He tries to bring her a gift whenever he can, no matter how small. It's easier to explain in the bond, with sensation rather than words. He brought her moss and some of the plants growing in the alter. The sense of serenity and protectiveness, an ease to loneliness. The lingering will of violence and the power of worship. Old magic still lives in these roots.

She takes the container from him as if he's brought her gold, and inhales the rich scent of it.

“You are always so thoughtful,” Malch says, “this gift is well received.”

Champion leans into the touch as she twists up from her chair to press a kiss to his temple. It's their ritual, when he brings her a gift. There's power and familiarity in ritual.

Malch places the small terrarium on the table for now, next to the human bones. They'll have to find a proper home for it eventually, to let it thrive. Maybe, Champion thinks off-hand, they can take it to the Greenhouse. He liked it there. The Gardener can continue to atone through his toils, and Champion and Malch can be together without interruption.

He looks at the shelves lined with Malch’s trophies and all of his gifts for her, and for a moment he sees the temple altar. The ancient aliens working hard for their gods’ favor and love, bringing gifts of wealth and gifts of blood for the chance to get their attention.

Champion doesn’t like competition. But perhaps it wouldn’t be amiss to build Malch her own altar. He wonders if she’d find the idea garish, but he thinks she would appreciate it in the end. That should be his project for the next cycle.

“What are you thinking about?” Malch asks, noticing him staring.

Champion thinks about the temple, and sleeping under the protection of the statues. He thinks about sleeping at Malch’s side, and her sharp teeth. Maybe an altar isn’t enough. She deserves a palace.

“The future,” he says.

She hums contentedly and he continues working on her mane. They fall into a comfortable silence, filled with the ebb and flow of the open bond between them.

Before long he's tying off the end of the braid. It's likely that there are other humans that could have done a better job, but since the Galra have no concept of braiding hair— or need to, since only Druids grow out their manes once they go white— no one will notice if his handiwork is a little sloppy.

Malch seems sad when he finishes. She likes having her mane worked on, and was nearly purring while Champion worked.

Malch picks at the ends of the braid curiously, “Well?” She asks.

Champion retrieves his shaving mirror from the bathroom. He holds it up for Malch to inspect.

“It is… very different,” is all she says.

“You don't like it?” He translates.

Her ears flicker, “Is it too much? Too strange?”

“It'll keep your hair clean,” Champion explains, “now it won't hang in your food. Humans with long hair do it all the time.”

His own white bangs are starting to bother him. He’ll need to find a way to tie them back so he can see.

“I am not human,” Malch points out.

“Then you can start a new trend,” Champion shrugs.

She growls, though not at him, “I do not know. It's very… different.”

“Try it,” he urges, “you're always so upset about how long it takes to clean your hair after eating. See if this makes any difference. If it doesn't, then we’ll never do it again.”

Malch glances between her reflection, and his pleading face. She sighs in defeat.

“I suppose I can indulge you, this once,” she says, as if she doesn't spoil him rotten.

Champion can't help but smile in victory.

* * *

  
The hall is teeming with prey, and Champion’s mouth waters. When he reaches out with his aura he can feel the hum of quintessence surrounding all the living. He can feel their hearts beating, and the pumping of blood in their veins. He looks over the prey, mentally picking out which ones he would like to eat.

Sendak isn’t present. His chair is empty, which is unlike the Commander. While Champion and Malch often arrive much closer to feeding time to avoid socializing, Sendak loves the atmosphere of the Banquet and enjoys spending his time talking with other members of the High Council or terrorizing the prey before the meal begins. Champion doesn’t miss him.

While neither he or Malch have much fondness for the High Commander, Sendak is thankfully good at keeping Zarkon distracted, as well as keeping his troops in line. Like Malch had said, the times that Champion had proposed killing Sendak, “there have been worse High Commanders”. But they know Sendak and they know how to keep him in line. That alone makes him worth keeping, rather than have to deal with a new High Commander.

What’s interesting is the fact that Champion wasn’t aware of any important mission that would be keeping Sendak away from the Banquet.

He brings this up as he and Malch take their seats.

“It is a surprise,” she says with a smile.

Champion trusts her with his life. He knows she’s playing games and having a little fun with him, but it worries him that there are things happening that he doesn’t know about. If he’s not aware of them, how can he be helpful?

“The Red Lion gave you the locations of others?” Champion guesses.

Malch’s ears come up and her smile stays, “You are very clever,” she says, and it’s as good as a _yes_.

Champion has to be clever. Malch wouldn’t want him if he was just a thoughtless tool to do her bidding. But the praise delights him all the same.

“Sendak’s gone to find the next lion,” Champion continues, “is that the surprise?” It’s quite a nice surprise— if the surprise is that Sendak is going to be away for most of the cycle, if not longer. Champion can’t think of a better gift.

“Part of it,” Malch agrees, “the Emperor will announce the rest.”

She wants him to be surprised, so he tries to keep his mind from mulling over the topic. He distracts himself by watching the prey again. Most are species he’s fought and killed at one point or another in the Arena, and even still there are so many species he hasn’t eaten yet. He muses over which tasted the best, and which species he wants to eat next. Many are too large for him to eat in one sitting, which normally doesn't bother him. But he likes to finish his whole meal in the spirit of the holiday. It's the beginning of a new cycle, and everything starts fresh.

The trumpets sound to announce the Emperor’s entrance to the to mess hall. Champion rises to his feet and salutes. He smiles warmly to Zarkon, who gives him a brief nod of acknowledgement. They’re due for Champion to teach him how to play chess after the Feeding Day rest has ended.

Zarkon relieves them and allows them to sit. He's got another speech, Champion is sure. Zarkon's pre-Feeding speeches have been getting longer-winded with every cycle. Malch and Champion joke about it.

“The dawn of a new cycle brings change,” Zarkon begins, “we are renewed with energy from our feasting, so that we may be as strong as the Empire requires us to be. We begin and achieve new goals and new frontiers every cycle. It is the dawn of a new age— and this cycle is no different. With this cycle, we shall begin our quest to locate and bring together the greatest weapon the Universe has ever known: Voltron!”

The High Council cheers loudly. Champion joins in, but resists the urge to roll his eyes. Voltron, Voltron, Voltron. That's all anyone talks about. It's a bunch of ancient technology. What makes it so special?

“We have located one Lion, and from it our Druids have scryed the locations of two more. High Commander Sendak has been assigned to collect the first we located.”

More cheers for Sendak. Champion doesn't join in.

“For the second Lion, I have decided that Champion will lead the mission to retrieve the second Lion for the Empire.”

The hall is quiet. Everyone is looking at him.

Champion can't speak. To finally lead a mission? It's all he's ever wanted— it's all Malch has trained him for. He's longed for the chance to prove himself outside of the Arena and War Room meetings. One day he hopes to make High Commander.

Malch’s pride and excitement flood the bond. She's been holding back. She knew!

Champion gets to his feet under the gaze of the High Council and the Emperor. He salutes perfectly.

“Champion, will you accept this mission?” Zarkon asks, “you will command your own battalion, and leave upon waking.”

“It would be my honour,” Champion says. He feels like he could fight a hundred battles in the Arena. He feels invincible! “to serve the Empire at the command of my Emperor. I will not fail you, sir.”

“There is a reason Champion was chosen for this mission,” Zarkon announces. Malch is still smiling. There's more to this surprise, Champion can tell. He's vibrating with energy. His own battalion. His own troops to command. His own ship! He'll prove to them all that Voltron isn't as grand as he is. He's so excited he wants to leave right now. He can barely stay still.

“The second Lion was discovered to be in a very distant system, on the fringe of the Empire. One Champion knows quite well.”

Champion's mind goes very quiet. For a moment he can't connect the dots. He feels sick like at the top of a very large drop. What about to drop? He glances at Malch for help. She's so proud of him, he can't help but smile back.

“The Lion is on Earth, where Champion originated. With his knowledge of the planet, he is sure to find the Lion quickly and without trouble.”

Earth.

Earth?

Where he was born— it was home.

It’s not where he originated. Takashi came from Earth, Champion came from Malch. From blood and violence in the Arena.

He’s going home.

The shoe drops. A glass falls— it shatters. All the pieces scatter and his mind rings in the silence.

The Galra are going to earth. He's bringing them to earth.

Zarkon isn't speaking. He's paused. They're all looking at Champion.

“Thank you for this honour,” Champion repeats numbly, “I won't fail you.”

Malch is the first to stand and cheer for Champion. She's flooding the bond with her praise. He feels like he's floating. The rest of the High Council picks it up, the allies that Champion has made over the cycles celebrate his promotion.

This is all he's ever wanted. This is everything he's trained and fought and bled and nearly died for.

He wants to scream.

* * *

  
It doesn't end. The feeling won't go away. It's like ice has filled his bones and not even his warming enchantment can dispel it.

Malch is too proud to notice. He is her greatest achievement yet, and everything she's worked for since she took him in is finally coming true.

The rest of the banquet passes by as if it's someone else sitting in his body. He feels like Malch has stepped into his mind and he's curiously watching her go through the movements of being him.

He's given a [Gedd](http://animorphs.wikia.com/wiki/Gedd)— it's the perfect size for him to be able to eat all of it in one sitting. A gift, thoughtfully chosen by Malch to celebrate his promotion. Champion thanks her accordingly as they disrobe before eating.

He barely hears the shouts of Zarkon's prey as the Emperor breaks his fast. He's watching Malch, and the powerful muscles in her jaws and body as she leaps at her prey. She's incredible and terrifying. Her mane is held back in the braid so he can see clearly as her teeth sink into her prey and the twist of her head as she rips a mouthful of flesh from the bone. Teeth stained red with blood, eyes bright with delight and hunger: she's the greatest image he's ever seen. He adores her and loves her and only wants her to be happy. Finding the Lions will make her happy, his success will make her happy. Why is he so scared?

It must be the distance. Earth is so far away from home.

Champion catches the Gedd’s arm with his left hand and holds the alien still with his right arm. Try as it might, the Gedd can't break his grip and it howls as he bites into it’s forearm. Malch chose well for him: the meat is tender but not chewy like other prey has been. The blue fur gets stuck in his teeth, but he's had worse.

He and Malch have never spent much time apart, save for this last assignment. At his age Champion should have his own accommodations separate from her— he's not a child, after all— but he's been loathe to bring up the topic and she's never pushed it. He's too used to having her around, and she's grown fond of him and his human quirks.

The Gedd tries to claw at him with its oversized foot and Champion pulls out its ankle with his foot and then stomps on its knee to break its leg. It crumples to the floor, and rather than try to support it’s weight Champion kneels down with it.

For a moment the Gedd is looking him in the eyes. It’s talking prey-nonsense, begging to be spared and that it doesn’t care if Champion eats the body, but let it live. Prey often beg to live— but for what purpose? All of these prey are useless in the Arena and while they could be sent to a work camp to toil away and die, their best purpose is served in keeping the Empire alive.

Champion sees his reflection in the Gedd’s yellow eyes and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

That’s not his face.

That’s not his face looking back at him— someone else is wearing his body. There’s a dead man in Champion’s bones and even with everyone staring at him earlier no one saw that there was an imposter in their midst.

It’s Takashi looking back at him. Looking scared and weak like he was when he died in the Arena.

Champion abandons his grip on the Gedd. He rocks back on his heels. He needs someone to tell him his face is his own— how can they not see that someone took his face?

The Gedd tries to crawl away. Champion is startled out of his panic as it’s blood spurts from the stump of it’s arm and hits his skin. He drags the Gedd back by it’s broken leg— it howls— and he kneels over it. He slides his thumbs up and under the Gedd’s eyes and scoops them right out of it’s face.

They’re crunchy and dribble down his chin as he chews them quickly. His throat feels dry and he almost chokes on the chunks. No one will ever see.

Champion’s just tired. That has to be it. He’s stressed about leaving Malch again so soon, and he’s tired. He’s just seeing things.

Something [slimy and grey](http://animorphs.wikia.com/wiki/Yeerk) crawls out of the Gedd’s ear. It’s a mouthful when he eats it, but it goes down his throat smoothly. He takes deep, shuddering breaths. He’s fine. He just needs to calm down.

Champion loses himself to the meal. To the routine and familiarity of the banquet. The Gedd’s bones are weaker than most aliens Champion has eaten, and they crack evenly when Champion bites into them. He doesn’t have the ability to digest bones, but he sucks the marrow from them before tossing them for anyone else to snap up. The Gedd dies some time after Champion has opened up it’s abdomen. He doesn’t have Malch’s curiosity to learn how everything works, but he appreciates the intricacies of a living body all the same.

He takes in the food, absorbs its energy and replenishes himself. Feeding Day is the beginning of a new Cycle. It’s a fresh start.

He eats every last bite. He wants this to be his greatest cycle yet, and he needs all the strength and good fortune he can get.

* * *

  
Champion’s licking blood off his fingers when he and Malch get home. He feels much better after the meal, and now he’s ready for a long sleep. He may have eaten too much— his stomach is a little queasy— but the relief at being where he belongs helps him to ignore the feeling.

Malch is laughing— she’s so excited, he’s never seen her this joyful— and she kisses his cheek, his temple, his nose, all over. Leaving smears of her meal on him as he preens under her affection. They retire to bed together. It feels so good to have her fur under his hand again, to feel the warmth of her body against his. And to feel the tsunami force of her quintessence under his other hand. She’s overwhelming in such a way that she blocks out any of his fear or apprehension.

“Oh,” she remembers, and her ears come up for a moment as she thinks, “I think we are out of blood. I drank the last of it after the scrying was complete.”

Champion quickly runs through a mental list of which vein would be best to cut for her, “Would you like some?” and he cracks a smile at his joke as he says, “I think I can manage to find some for you.”

His thigh would be best if she’s very thirsty, or maybe his wrist but he’s worried that will be too messy. Not that it matters, he thinks, they’re both covered in gore and staining the bedsheets enough anyways.

“No, I will be fine,” she says, “I have indulged too much this last cycle, and you need all your strength for your mission.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” he blurts out, and surprises even himself at the admission, “I want to make you proud but… but I hate not being at your side.”

“My Champion,” Malch says fondly, and runs her claws along his cheek. The touch is soothing and he tries not to think about how he’s going to miss it.

“You will always be mine,” Malch continues after a moment, continuing her gentle touch to help soothe him, “no matter where you are in the universe, you will find your way back to me. No matter how long we are apart, I will know you. As long as you love me, I will keep you.”

Champion catches her hand and holds it close so her palm cradles his cheek, “Forever and always,” he repeats, and recalls all of the times he’s made this vow, “as long as I’m living, my life is for you.”

Malch smiles down at him, and moves to adjust them so that Champion is nearly laying in her lap.

“You are nervous,” she says, and runs her claws through his hair. He can feel her moving through their bond, and prowling into his mind. She looks around with no need to snoop. Anything she wants is available to her.

“Rest will do you well. When the time comes, you will serve your purpose and make me proud. I know you will not fail me.”

Under her touch and her certainty, Champion is sure that she’s right. His body feels heavy with sleep and the bed finally feels right, now that he’s with Malch again. She yawns loudly, and Champion rests his head against her. He can hear her heart beating.

He falls asleep in her arms.

* * *

  
The temple rises high enough to challenge the heavens. He fills it with every gift he's ever brought her, every word he's ever spoken in her praise. He sets them all at the altar and she demands more. Always more.

He brings her earth and she swallows it. She drinks up the rivers and the oceans, she eats every animal and every mountain range. Clouds rise on her exhale.

He lines up every person he's ever met. They walk into the temple in shackles, crying and begging like the humans in the dark room, and he gives them all to her. Blood floods the floors, getting deeper and deeper. It runs down the stairs and the humans can't climb up. There's too much blood. She keeps drinking. She's starving. She needs more, more, more.

She drinks in the stars and swallows the sun. It sets in her jaws and never rises again.

The land is barren and void of any life. All the humans are dead. There's nothing left and she wants more. She's so hungry. He doesn't know what else he can give her. There's nothing else.

She turns on him. Her fangs are long and sharp. There's nowhere else for him to go except the altar. It's safe there, she watches over him. He can sleep.

The temple is lined with the bones of every living thing on earth. They're piled as high as the ceiling. He runs for the altar, but he keeps sinking in the bones. Blood is welling up underneath him. He has to get to the altar. He's going to drown.

She sees him crawling. She peers down at him as if he's a bug. He reaches for her, begs her to save him.

She watches him. The blood keeps rising. He's swimming. The bones float and they wrap around his limbs. He can't keep this up. The Gedd's eyes float by, and his face isn't his own in the reflection. She doesn’t recognize him.

She leans down and starts drinking again. She's so thirsty, so hungry. Nothing can ease her pain.

He wants to tell her to stop. She's going to consume him. Blood fills his mouth, bones drag him under. He's drowning, going down down down, as he's pulled towards her teeth.

* * *

  
He doesn't wake abruptly. He's not startled, but one moment he's dreaming and the next he's awake. In their sleep they've shifted positions, on their side and her arm is thrown over his hip and her breath is warm on the back of his neck.

He feels stretched thin. A lingering sensation of the nightmare plagues him. An overwhelming sensation to _run_ clings to him.

He's awake and starts to slide out from under Malch’s arm. She growls and tightens her grip. She likes it when he stays beside her. He waits, coaxes her arm up so he can kiss the back of her hand. It soothes the beast and she stops growling.

After a moment she releases him and once he's up, she sprawls into his space.

He makes his way to the lavatory, and sleepily steps into the shower. The water swirls with blood and chunks of his meal, as well as some of Malch’s fur that's dried to him. He scrubs himself clean and takes a little extra time to enjoy the warm water. Maybe it will dispel the ache in his body. He's still so full from the Banquet that he might burst. Maybe he will go back to bed and keep sleeping this off.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and for a moment he’s in a dark, dark place. He knows this place… someone is screaming.

It’s the humans— one of the humans. The small one. It’s crying and he doesn’t understand why. It’s acting like prey. He has it’s arm pulled taut across the cutting board. He has the knife. He has a purpose: he’s here to harvest. Why is it screaming?

He didn't unwrap the memory. He didn't open this secret. How did it find him? He quickly checks and Malch is still sleeping. She doesn’t know about this secret.

The human— no, not just the human— it’s Matt. He knows Matt. Matt who took his pocketknife to peel an apple and never gave it back. Matt who watched in awe as he guided the ship into orbit and taught him how to fly. Matt who grinned proudly at his father. Matt, who he crippled to prove his bloodthirst in the Arena.

Matt is screaming. He’s saying a name— a human name. He knows the humans. They travelled together. They were friends.

He was going to save them. Both of them. He was going to be brave. He remembers standing, at the beginning of his first cycle. Malch instructing him. _Sit, stay, good boy_. He remembers humiliation— why had he been so upset? He’d been learning obedience and courtesy, why had it insulted him? He remembers trying to run, and he remembers pain. There has always been so much pain since she came into his life.

He seals the secret back where it belongs. The terror that the secret holds has leaked out, staining his joints and making him want to panic. He wants to run.

He looks down at the latticework of scars on his body. At all the places he has bled in her name, for her thirst, or at her touch. There isn’t a part of him that she hasn’t refashioned into something—some _one_ — new. There is no part of him that she has left unscathed, no part of him that is his alone. Not his mind, not his body and not even his past or his future. She’s wormed her way into everything. There is no him without her.

He does not exist without her.

It’s a sobering thought. It’s one of the most frightening thoughts he’s ever had.

When he leaves the shower, he dares to look in the mirror. He doesn’t recognize the reflection. He doesn’t know who this man is, who is staring back at him. He doesn’t really know who he thought he was before this stranger took his face. Malch hasn’t noticed. Does this mean that this is the face she made for him?

He leaves the lavatory and heads for his wardrobe. He doesn’t have many clothes. All of his clothing carries her symbol. He is her apprentice, her warrior, her champion. There’s only one thing he owns— one thing out of all the clothes she’s given him— that does not carry her reputation. He kept it to remind himself of where he started.

The prisoner garb is tight. It’s not what he originally wore when he was captured, those clothes were ruined quickly with violence and bloodstains. These fit tight across his chest and on his arms. He’s gained muscle since she took him in. He’s proud of this body, of what it can do and all that it has accomplished, but was it ever really his to mould?

He surprises himself when he finds the scrap of her robe that he salvaged. From the robe that was wrecked during the rebel ambush after their planet-side Feeding Day. He kept the piece of this robe as a memento. So he would always have a piece of her. It folds small and fits easily into his pocket.

He looks at her, sleeping in their bed. This is their home, and yet it will never be _his_. It is hers and he is living here. She’s beautiful, he’ll never think of her otherwise. She’s grace and power and magic and wisdom and wrath in one lithe body. Her fangs are sharp and show from where her lips are slack with sleep.

It reminds him of his dream. While his dreamwalking skills are not great, he knows better than to ignore such a symbolic dream. She will consume him. She’s taking him apart, bit by bit, and she’s reforming him into the ideal she wants him to be. And when she is done, not even she will recognize him. He won’t even know himself. He barely knows himself.

He pauses a moment to remember the humans. Matthew and Samuel Holt. He knows them. He was friends with them. He promised to be brave for them, to save them. It’s so hard to recall why that’s important.

His own memories have become foreign to him. How long does he have left before she’s taken everything? Will she stop? Will she ever find him perfect; will she ever be appeased?

He thinks of her sharp teeth in the dream. No, she will never be satisfied.

She’s going to consume him.

She’ll burn him out, leave him only a husk to obey her and love her for eternity. That’s what she wants him to be. Hers. Her only companion, her devout follower.

The thought strikes him like a gong.

He has to run.

If he wants to survive he must flee.

He loves her, but she’s going to kill him.

He wears nothing of hers. Not the apprentice robes, not the ring he wears for owning the Arena. Not the clothes she gives him or the collar she once put on him. For just this moment, he is free of her. She sleeps, she won’t follow him.

He runs.

* * *

  
The Drones don’t see him. He’s memorized their schedule cycles ago, though he didn’t know what for at the time. He’s out, he’s dressed as a prisoner— as _himself_ — and he’s not hers right now. It’s a heady, complex thought. Has he ever been himself? He can’t even trust his own memories. He doesn’t know what she’s reshaped to her liking.

The cold dread hollowing him out from the inside grows as he approaches the hangar. His ship is there. She’s majestic and glorious, the perfect vessel to take him and his troops to earth for the Lion. The terror only grows, and he chases it. He has to unravel why he’s so afraid. The fear is the only part of who he was that he has left.

Walking the length of his ship feels like walking a tomb. He’s not sure how he got onboard. He’s sweating, he’s losing time. His heart beats a staccato rhythm.

 _Run, run, run_ , it insists.

He would fly this ship in her name, spread her glory across the stars and bring her adoration and gifts from all corners of the universe. What would he be? Hers, always.

He’s on the bridge. This is where he will stand and when he returns to earth. When he returns as a creature no human could comprehend, or begin to understand. He’s like nothing else in the universe. Only she will love the monster he’s become. That she made.

_Run, run, run._

The ship hums under his feet. It’s attuned to his quintessence. It takes mere thoughts to direct it. She taught him this, she showed him these skills. Powers beyond anything any human could possibly imagine or grasp at. Powers that she controls and limits in the Universe.

_RUN, RUN, RUN._

The Drones don’t stop him from leaving, but he knows they’ll log his departure. There’s only so much time before he’s discovered.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He has to survive.

* * *

  
—going to be furious she’s going to hurt him she’s going to be merciful she’s going to scream she’s going to laugh she’s going to bite him she’s going to cage him she’s going to understand she’s going to be mad she's going to—

* * *

  
She’s everywhere. She’s in everything. He doesn’t know where he ends and where she began. She took him apart and stitched him back up as her thing. He can’t even recognize himself. Has he always been bloodthirsty? Has he always been insightful? Has he always been brave? Has he always been cunning? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know who he is.

Why is he running?

His heart keeps beating. That same unrelenting pace.

The wormhole opens.

* * *

  
He knows the parts of him that she’s cultivated. Anger, cruelty, decisiveness. And those which she’s suppressed. Compassion, charisma, empathy. He remembers being young, he remembers brawling with other students. He remembers being a child and offering a crayon to a friend in need, and he remembers pulling chairs out from under others and laughing at their surprise. She loves his memories. She loves that he has been cruel or rude or angry since he was a child, even when he has also been kind and generous and compassionate too. It must be her. He doesn’t know himself but he knows the parts of him that she likes best. If he… if he gets rid of it. Maybe that’s a part of him that was never his to begin with.

If all he is, is just parts to be built, then he can take apart what she’s made and rebuild himself in his own image.

Maybe then he can recognize himself.

* * *

  
He has to go back. She’ll still be sleeping. She won’t know what he’s done. He can lock this all away too, like the other secret. He’ll bury it so far down that not even he will ever see it again. He can forget all of this. His head hurts. Who is he?

He misses her.

* * *

  
He starts carving. Like taking out the bruised skin of a fruit. He cuts into the flesh of his mind and peels it back, only to find that it's even more rotted underneath. He's littered with rot, with her touch. He has to carve it all out. Nothing of hers can remain or else he will never be himself.

The ship is screaming. The sound echoes through the bridge.

Layer after layer he skins his mind, ripping deep into her influence. He loses entire memories. He loses months, cycles, to her taint. It's still not enough.

No, it's not the ship screaming. It's him.

* * *

  
He has to keep her from Earth. He can find his past there, he can discover who he used to be. There have to be humans who know him. But they won’t recognize him either, not like this. He needs to be human, he needs to try and be who he was. He was good, kind. Not mean, not angry. He didn’t fight. He didn’t scheme. He had to have been loving. He didn’t like being alone. He wanted to be with others. She made him someone who liked violence. She made him someone who could feel fury. She made him. He has to unmake himself.

* * *

  
The Galra find him. He wakes as the system alerts him of damage done. They’re trying to hail him. He can’t answer. He has no answer to give. He presses the ship on. He can still feel her claws in his mind. He hasn’t gotten rid of enough. Every bit of envy, of jealousy or possessiveness: that must be hers.

His head hurts. There’s gaping holes now where he’s carved her out.

It’s not enough.

 

* * *

  
If he tells earth about the Lion. Maybe they can protect it. If she never gets her hands on Voltron, then she’ll never be able to eat him.

He’s so tired. He has to keep cutting.

 

* * *

  
They’ve stopped trying to contact him. They’re going to shoot him down, to try and kill him before he can warn humanity.

He puts what’s left of his energy into the engines. He just needs a head start. Once he hits the ground, he’ll be running. The Galra won’t be able to stop him.

He doesn’t know who he is, he doesn’t know who he used to be. But there’s one thing he knows, whether it’s her influence or the only thing that he has left of himself:

He’s come too far to die now. He will always survive.

 

* * *

  
He did it. She's gone.

And as his final act he seals all that she did to him away. Down, down, down into the deepest darkest parts of his mind. He has to be his own, whatever is left that she didn't claim.

She made him her monster.

He will make himself the opposite. He will never be her Champion, but there's too little left of him to be Takashi. He doesn't know who he is.

He keeps a single thread: one purpose for him to hold on to.

Voltron.

He will keep it from them. From her.

His mind is skinned raw and ragged with missing chunks. Nothing should be able to live through what he's just done. But he's strong. She won't eat him, the Galra won't kill him.

There's so much pain. But it's good pain. Necessary pain. He can't see through it. The ship is falling. He doesn't know where he is.

He's screaming, and part of it is in victory. In rebirth.

 

* * *

  
He's unconscious by the time the ship crashes

 

* * *

  
He wakes.

He’s tied down. He can’t breathe. His head hurts in ways he's never felt before. It's as if someone stuck his brain in a blender. He can't focus his eyes, he can barely form a coherent thought.

The voices around him are alien. The creatures are white and their skin hangs baggy from their limbs. He doesn’t know where he is. How did he get here?

“He’s awake,” a voice says. He knows what those sounds mean. He’s heard this language before. It’s so high-pitched. He doesn’t know what it is.

An alien leans over him, “Shiro? Shiro can you hear me?”

His heart beats.

A name. That's him? Yes, it must be. He latches onto it, like an anchor in the storm of his mind. Things begin to settle. He can rebuild on this foundation. A name is an identity.

This is familiar. The aliens are staring at him. It takes a shift in their posture to catch the light on the visor in a new way, for him to realize that they’re wearing suits.

They’re human! It’s English!

There are hands on him. He’s still tied down.

“Hey!” he shouts, and his voice feels so strange. Why would his own voice feel strange? The words don’t feel right in his mouth, “What are you doing?”

It’s Iverson. He knows Iverson. He’s on earth. His eyes water. He wants to cry. He wants to start running. Why is he tied down? What do they want with him?

Iverson leans over him, and places a large hand on his shoulder, “Calm down, Shiro. We just need to keep you quarantined until we run some tests.”

He doesn't have time for tests. No one has time.

Something's coming. What's coming— who's coming? He needs to find it— the thing—- no, wait— they're going to find it. It's bad. He can't think. His head hurts so much.

He tastes blood in his mouth.

What kind of tests?

 

* * *

  
Shiro’s been a test subject. He’s run tests on planes, on gliders, on simulations. He’s been tested before. His physical exam, his math exam, a spelling bee. A test is nothing new.

Why does he want to start running and never stop?

 

* * *

  
They sedate him.

Shiro’s mind is sluggish but no less settled.

He’s so afraid.

They're out of time.

 

* * *

  
Shiro wakes up to four kids standing over him, watching him sleep. He doesn’t know how he got here.

“Umm… hi?” he asks. His head is still pounding. It's not settled, but he's strung together enough thoughts that he feels more in control. More like himself.

“Are you okay?” Keith asks— Keith! He knows Keith— god, he looks so grown up? What happened?

“I… yeah, I’m okay. Why?” Shiro asks.

The kids all glance at each other.

“Do you… do you remember anything?” the tall, lanky one says.

“You’ve been missing for a year,” his dark-skinned friend blurts out.

“Hunk!” the lanky kid snaps.

“What’s Voltron?” the smallest kid asks, “you haven’t stopped shouting about it.”

A year. Shiro doesn’t know how to process that. He’s been gone a year? It… that’s not important. There are more pressing matters.

What does he remember?

He was with the Holts on Kerberos and… and...

“Aliens,” he says slowly, “we were captured by aliens,” and it's a complete blank after that, yet he has some information? What happened to him? “And they’re coming here. For Voltron. We have to find it before they do.”

 

* * *

  
They find the Blue Lion. They meet the Alteans. They fight the Galra.

They form Voltron.

Shiro's the leader. That's who he is. It's a lot of responsibility.

He thinks he can fill this role.

 

* * *

  
“We can show you to your quarters, and then we should commence training at once,” Allura says, “while we were victorious today, your inability to form Voltron is worrisome at best. We must be sure that you will not perform so poorly in the next battle.”

“But we formed Voltron when it counted! And we kicked bad-guy butt! Can’t we at least have a shower? Maybe a snack?” Lance whines.

“Yeah, actually, how long have we been away? Have we missed dinner? I am _starving_ ,” Hunk declares.  

“Me too! Is there anything to eat around here?” Lance asks. Both Pidge and Keith voice their agreement.

“I… I suppose,” Allura says slowly. She’s not sure how to handle the strange aliens who have complete disregard for the orders of Altean Royalty. She glances to Coran for support.

“Some food and rest sounds like an excellent idea! I'm sure we can make something your strange little bodies can digest,” Coran says, and waves the kids to follow him.

Pidge pauses in the doorway as the others leave, “hey Shiro, you coming?”

Shiro glances up from where he was looking out the bridge windows at the planet around them. He’s on another planet! Completely outside the solar system! He’s so excited that it’s a little distracting.

He ponders the question briefly. He can't remember the last time he ate— but he really can't remember much at all before he woke up with the kids. He tries to decide if he's hungry, but in all honesty he feels like he's already had a meal. Must be post-battle adrenaline.

“I'm good,” he assures the teen, “I actually feel pretty full.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, Y'ALL, I can't believe it's over.
> 
> Thank you so much for everyone who's joined in on this wild ride of a crazy idea and some pretty dark times for Shiro. Thank you all for the support, for the feedback, and for sitting with MP and I as we all shout 'oh my G O D Shiro?!' as he continued to shock us with what he was willing to do to survive.
> 
> The ending of this story plays heavily into my own personal headcanon that show!Shiro, as we've seen him, is just another coping mechanism Shiro adopted to stave off any impending breakdown. Even if his backstory is nowhere near as dark as Little Monster, I think Shiro's trying to trick himself into believing he's fine by being the best version of himself he can possibly be. We'll... we'll see how that goes. 
> 
> Stay tuned and keep an eye on this series-- MP and I are currently writing our own version of what s2 could look like, using this version of Shiro's missing year as our backstory, and boy oh BOY is it gonna be good. It may be posted under a new series-- as this series is primarily about Shiro's Fun Year, and the new story is about the Paladins as a whole-- but we'll keep y'all informed!
> 
> Again, big thanks to everyone who's ever left a comment or a kudo. I can't tell y'all all the times I've sat down and read through them when I'm feeling down, or just when I want to have a reason to smile. They make this story a joy to write, as I can't wait to get your responses and I love chatting with all of you!
> 
> See y'all next story :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Feeding Day the 6th](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9296459) by [Ariasune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune)




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